ken ranks, or, failing in
that, to share their fate because of what they had done hitherto.

About this time Colonel Wood, my chief commissary, arrived from the
front and gave me fuller intelligence, reporting that everything was
gone, my headquarters captured, and the troops dispersed. When I
heard this I took two of my aides-de-camp, Major. George A. Forsyth
and Captain Joseph O'Keefe, and with twenty men from the escort
started for the front, at the same time directing Colonel James W.
Forsyth and Colonels Alexander and Thom to remain behind and do what
they could to stop the runaways.

For a short distance I traveled on the road, but soon found it so
blocked with wagons and wounded men that my progress was impeded, and
I was forced to take to the adjoining fields to make haste. When
most of the wagons and wounded were past I returned to the road,
which was thickly lined with unhurt men, who, having got far enough
to the rear to be out of danger, had halted, without any
organization, and begun cooking coffee, but when they saw me they
abandoned their coffee, threw up their hats, shouldered their
muskets, and as I passed along turned to follow with enthusiasm and
cheers. To acknowledge this exhibition of feeling I took off my hat,
and with Forsyth and O'Keefe rode some distance in advance of my
escort, while every mounted officer who saw me galloped out on either
side of the pike to tell the men at a distance that I had come back.
In this way the news was spread to the stragglers off the road, when
they, too, turned their faces to the front and marched toward the
enemy, changing in a moment from the depths of depression, to the
extreme of enthusiasm. I already knew that even in the ordinary
condition of mind enthusiasm is a potent element with soldiers, but
what I saw that day convinced me that if it can be excited from a
state of despondency its power is almost irresistible. I said
nothing except to remark as I rode among those on the road: "If I had
been, with you this morning this disaster would not have happened.
We must face the other way; we will go back and recover our camp."

My first halt was made just north of Newtown, where I met a chaplain
digging his heels into the sides of his jaded horse, and making for
the rear with all possible speed. I drew up for an instant, and
inquired of him how matters were going at the front. He replied,
"Everything is lost; but all will be right when you get there";