'Black Horse, Black Horse!' the running soldiers screamed, the turnpike thick with them now; most were soaked from wading the creek to avoid the bridge. Constance cried out softly and hugged the children as a shell burst in the field to their right. Dirt came down all over them.
George drew his Colt, transferred it to his left hand, and struggled to turn the nervous animals using only his right. Not easy, but he was determined to get his family to safety. He stayed off the turnpike; too many retreating men made it impossible to travel with any speed. Uniforms were mingled, regulation blue with gaudy Zouave outfits — the entire Union force must have collapsed into disorder.
'Hold on,' he yelled as he plunged the team through a stubble field south of the road, then swerved wildly to avoid a tuba thrown away by some musician. In a quarter of a mile, hundreds of men caught up with them and passed them. George was outraged by the rout, the fleeing soldiers, and the spectators. Beyond the turnpike, he saw three women thrown from their buggy by two men in civilian clothes. He raised his Colt to fire at them, then realized the futility of it and didn't.
He began to ache from the rough transit of the fields. Smoke made his eyes smart; shells landed close behind them. Crossing another small stream, the barouche's rear wheels sank into ooze on the bank. George ordered the family out and gestured William to the off rear wheel. Just then he saw Stanley's rig race by, straight down the middle of the turnpike. Soldiers had to leap out of the way. Isabel spied the barouche, but her fear- stricken face suggested she didn't recognize anyone.
A sergeant and two privates splashed toward the mired vehicle. George was wary of the sergeant's glazed look. Standing in muddy water halfway up his thighs, George drew the Colt's hammer back.
'Help us push it out or get the hell away.'
The sergeant called him a name and motioned his men on.
Almost blinded by sweat, George put his shoulder against the wheel and told his son to do the same. 'Push!'
They strained and heaved; Constance dragged at the headstall of the near horse. Finally the barouche sprang free of the mud. Dirty, angry, and fearful, George resumed the drive toward Washington, wondering if they would ever see it again.
Men and wagons, wagons and men. The summer light slanted lower, and the smoke hampered visibility. The smells grew intolerable: urine-stained wool, bleeding animals, the bowels of an open-mouthed dead youth in a ditch.
The woods ahead looked impassable; George put the barouche back on the road. He heard weeping. 'The Black Horse Cavalry tore us to pieces!' Soldiers repeatedly tried to climb in the carriage. George handed the Colt to Constance and armed himself with the whip.
Under drooping trees, the stable nags were slowed to a walk, then stopped completely. A bleeding cavalry horse had fallen in the center of the road. It blocked the retreat of about a dozen men in stained Zouave uniforms. All but one double-timed around the dying animal; the last soldier, young and pudgy and displaying a deeply gashed cheek, halted and stared at the animal. Suddenly he raised his muzzleloader and brought the butt down on the horse's head.
Crying and cursing, he hit the horse again. Then twice more, with increasing ferocity. Ignoring his wife's plea, George jumped from the barouche. The boy had already broken open the horse's skull. While the animal thrashed and George's outraged yell went unheeded, the soldier raised his musket for another blow. Tears washed down into his wound.
George shouted, 'I am giving you a direct order to —'
The rest got lost in the boy's sobbed obscenities and the scream of the horse taking the next blow. George ran around the animal, glimpsing its head by chance; the sight brought vomit to his throat. He tore the muzzleloader out of the hands of the demented youth and menaced him with it.
'Get out of here. Go on!'
Indifferent to the anger, the boy gave George a vacant look, then stumbled down the shoulder to the ditch and turned in the direction of Washington. He was still crying and muttering to himself. George quickly checked the musket, found it was loaded, and fired a shot to end the horse's agony. He stopped three running men, and the four of them dragged the dead animal to the side of the turnpike.
Breathing hard and still tasting vomit, he searched for the barouche. He spied Constance standing in the road, an arm around each child and the Colt dangling in her right hand. George saw the barouche moving away toward Centreville, packed with men in blue.
'They took it, George. I couldn't shoot our own soldiers —' 'Of course not. It's my fault for leaving you — Patricia, crying won't help. We'll get out of this. We'll be all right. Give me the gun. Now let's walk.'
In Mexico, George had learned that a battle was inevitably larger than what the individual soldier perceived and experienced; even generals sometimes failed to discern the larger patterns. George's knowledge of the battle at Bull Run consisted of what he saw from the spectator site and on the retreat in the hot, insect-ridden hours of a waning Sunday. For him, Bull Run would forever be a road of wrecked wagons and discarded gear, a stream bed for a blue torrent that overflowed both sides and crashed by them, impelled by the melting of some unknown grand plan.
Constance tugged the sleeve of his uniform. 'George, look there — ahead.'
He saw Stanley's carriage lying on its side. The horses were gone; stolen, probably. Isabel and the twins huddled around George's brother, who sat on a roadside stone, his undone cravat dangling between his legs. Stanley's hands were pressed to his face. George knew why; he had experienced a similar moment years ago.
'Christ, do I have to take care of him again?'
'I know how you feel. But we can't leave them there.'
'Why not?' said Patricia. 'Laban and Levi are hateful. Let the rebs get them.' Constance slapped her, turned red, hugged her, and apologized.
George refused to look at Isabel as he stepped in front of his brother. 'Get up, Stanley.' Stanley's shoulders heaved. George seized Stanley's right hand and jerked it down. 'Get on your feet. Your family needs you.'
'He just — collapsed when the carriage overturned,' Isabel said. George paid no attention, pulling and hauling till he got his brother up and pointed in the right direction. George pushed; Stanley started walking.
So the shepherd and his flock went on. Men continued to pass them, most dirty with powder and grime, many bloodied. They encountered a few volunteer oflicers bravely trying to keep a small squad formed up, but these were the exception; the majority of officers had no men and walked or ran faster than their subordinates.
Stanley's breakdown infuriated his wife but, oddly, her anger focused on George. The twins complained and muttered disparaging remarks about George until near-darkness separated them from the others in a field. After five minutes of frantic shouting, the twins found the adults again. Henceforth they walked directly behind George, saying nothing.
The detritus of defeat lay everywhere: canteens, horns and drums, shot pouches and bayonets. Darkness came down, and the eerie cries of the hurt and dying made George think of an aviary in hell. In the shadow tide flowing by, the voices rose and fell: '— fucking captain ran.
The rising moon provided scant light; translucent clouds kept floating across it. The air smelled of rain. George guessed it to be ten or eleven o'clock; he was so weary, he could have crawled in a ditch and slept. That told him how tired the others must be.
At Centreville, they finally saw lights again — and wounded everywhere. Some New York volunteers with a supply wagon noticed the children and offered to drive them on to Fairfax Courthouse. They had no room for the adults. George spoke earnestly to William, whom he knew he could trust, and when he was sure his son knew the rendezvous point, he and Constance helped the youngsters into the wagon. Isabel uttered objections; Stanley stared at the rainy moon.
The wagon disappeared. The adults resumed their walk. Along the roadsides beyond Centreville they passed more casualties, sleeping or resting or still. The sight of hurt faces, bloodied limbs, the moonlit eyes of lads too young to be asked to look at death, continually reminded George of Mexico, and of the burning house in Lehigh
