y with varying fortune. At sunset General
Johnston, in the thickest of the fight, was struck from his horse by a
shell. He is desperately wounded; the country prays not mortally.
General Lee is now in command of the Armies of Virginia. The battle was
resumed yesterday morning and lasted until late in the day. Each side
claims the victory. Our loss is perhaps five thousand; we hold that the
enemy's was as great. General McClellan has returned to his camp upon
the banks of the Chickahominy. Richmond is not taken.--The general
commanding the Army of the Valley congratulates his men upon the part
they have played in the operations before our capital. At seven in the
morning the chaplains of the respective regiments will hold divine
services."

CHAPTER XXV

ASHBY

Flournoy and Munford, transferred to Ashby's command, kept with him in
the Confederate rear. The army marching from the Shenandoah left the
cavalry behind in the wind and rain to burn the bridge and delay
Fremont. Ashby, high on the eastern bank, watched the slow flames seize
the timbers, fight with the wet, prevail and mount. The black stallion
planted his fore feet, shook his head, snuffed the air. The wind blew
out his rider's cloak. In the light from the burning bridge the scarlet
lining glowed and gleamed like the battle-flag. The stallion neighed.
Ashby's voice rose ringingly. "Chew, get the Blakeley ready! Wyndham's
on the other side!"

The flames mounted high, a great pyre streaming up, reddening the night,
the roaring Shenandoah, the wet and glistening woods. Out of the
darkness to the north came Maury Stafford with a scouting party. He
saluted. "There is a considerable force over there, sir, double-quicking
through the woods to save the bridge. Cavalry in front--Wyndham, I
suppose, still bent on 'bagging' you."

"Here they are!" said Ashby. "But you are too late, Colonel Sir Percy
Wyndham!"

The blazing arch across the river threw a wine-red light up and down and
showed cavalry massing beneath walnut, oak, and pine. There were trumpet
signals and a great trampling of hoofs, but the roaring flames, the
swollen torrent, the pattering rain, the flaws of wind somewhat dulled
other sounds. A tall man with sash and sabre, thigh boots and
marvellously long moustaches, sat his horse beneath a dripping,
wind-tossed pine. He pointed to the grey troopers up and down the
southern bank. "There's the quarry! _Fire!_"

Two could play at that game. The