rolls, haversack and
knapsack and the full fighting rounds of cartridges, but they were not
going to leave the handcuffs. If they had to drop anything on the march
they might ease up on a blanket or half their heavy cartridges.

John found sleep impossible, and was ready to move at one o'clock. The
dust was rising already in parched clouds from the dry Virginia roads.
He walked to the edge of the woods and gazed over the dark moonlit hills
around Centreville. A gentle breeze began to stir the leaves overhead
but it was hot and lifeless. He caught the smell of sweating horses in a
battery of artillery, hitched for the march. It was going to be a day of
frightful heat under the clear blazing sun of the South, this Sunday,
the 21st of July, 1861. He could see already in his imagination the long
lines of sweating half fainting marchers staggering under the strain.
Yet not for a moment did he doubt the result.

From a store on the hill at Centreville came the plaintive strains of a
negro's voice accompanied by a banjo. A crowd of Congressmen had driven
out from Washington on a picnic to see the spectacle of the first and
last battle of the "Rebellion." They were drinking good whiskey and
making merry.

For the first time a little doubt crept into his mind. Were they all too
cocksure? It might be a serious business after all. It was only for a
moment and his fears vanished. He was glad Ned was not in those grey
lines in front. His company had been formed promptly, and he had been
elected first lieutenant, but they were still in Southern Missouri under
General Sterling Price. He shouldn't like to come on his brother's body
dead or wounded after the battle--the young dare-devil fool!

Promptly at two o'clock the sharp orders rang from the regimental
commander:

"Forward march!"

The lines swung carelessly into the powdered dust of the road and moved
forward into the fading moonlight, talking, laughing, chatting, joking.
War was yet a joke and the contagious fire of patriotism had flung its
halo even over this night's work. Except here and there a veteran of the
Mexican War, not one of these men had ever seen a battle or had the
remotest idea what it was like.

John was marching with Sherman's brigade of Tyler's division. At six
o'clock they reached the stone bridge which crossed Bull Run. On the
hills beyond stretched a straggling line of grey figures. It couldn't be
an army. Only a few skirmishers thrown out to warn of