"That Pemberton has been whipped at Baker's Creek and Big Black, and his
army are running back here as fast as they can come, and the Yanks after
them, in such numbers nothing can stop them. Hasn't Pemberton acted like
a fool?"

"He may not be the only one to blame," replied H.

"They're coming along the Big B. road, and my folks went down there to
be safe, you know; now they're right in it. I hear you can't see the
armies for the dust; never was anything else known like it. But I must
go and try to bring my folks back here."

What struck us both was the absence of that concern to be expected, and
a sort of relief or suppressed pleasure. After twelve some
worn-out-looking men sat down under the window.

"What is the news?" I inquired.

"Ritreat, ritreat!" they said, in broken English--they were Louisiana
Acadians.

About three o'clock the rush began. I shall never forget that woeful
sight of a beaten, demoralized army that came rushing back,--humanity in
the last throes of endurance. Wan, hollow-eyed, ragged, foot-sore,
bloody, the men limped along unarmed, but followed by siege-guns,
ambulances, gun-carriages, and wagons in aimless confusion. At twilight
two or three bands on the court-house hill and other points began
playing "Dixie," "Bonnie Blue Flag," and so on, and drums began to beat
all about; I suppose they were rallying the scattered army.