An hour before the pike road leading past the plantation gates had been white and deserted, not even a spiral of dust breaking its loneliness.  Through openings in a grove I had looked northward as far as the log church and observed no moving figure.  But now this was all changed; as though by some mysterious alchemy, war had succeeded peace, the very landscape appearing grimly desolate, yet alive with moving figures.  And these told the story, the story of defeat.  It was not a new scene to me, but nevertheless pitiful.  They came trudging from out the smoke clouds, and across the untilled fields, alone, or in little groups, some armed, more weaponless, here and there a bloody bandage showing, or a limp bespeaking a wound; dirty, unshaven men, in uniforms begrimed and tattered, disorganized, swearing at each other, casting frightened glances backward with no other thought or desire save to escape the pursuing terror behind.  They were the riff-raff of the battle, the skulkers, the cowards, the slightly wounded, making pin pricks an excuse for escape.  Wagons toiled along in the midst of them, the gaunt mules urged on by whip and voice, while occasionally an ambulance forced its way through.  Here and there some worn-out straggler or wounded man had crawled into shade, and lay heedless of the turmoil.  Shouts, oaths, the cracking of whips, the rumble of wheels mingled with the ceaseless roar of musketry, and the more distant reverberation of cannon, while clouds of powder smoke drifted back on the wind to mingle with the dust, giving to all a spectral look.  Back from the front on various missions galloped couriers and aides, spurring their horses unmercifully, and driving straight through the mob in utter recklessness.  One, a black-bearded brute, drew his sabre, and slashed right and left as he raced madly by.

Toward the ravine all remained quiet, although here and there in the orchard some of the gray-clad stragglers had found opportunity to lie down out of the ruck.  But the smoke and musketry gave me a conception of the Confederate line of battle, its left thrown across the pike with centre and right doubling back into the form of a horse-shoe, all centring on the Hardy house.  Within twenty minutes we would be caught as in a trap.  I sprang back to the stairs, and as I did so a sudden yell rose from the surging mob without, a shout in which seemed to mingle fear and exultation.  Bell, from a side window joined in, and a single glance told the reason:  up from the south rode cavalry, sweeping the pike clean of its riff-raff, and behind, barely visible through the dust, tramped a compact mass of infantry, breaking into double time.  The black-bearded aide dashed to their front, waving sabre and pointing; the clear note of a bugle cleaved the air; the horsemen spread out like a fan, and with the wild yell of the South rising above the din, the files of infantry broke into a run, and came sweeping forward in a gray torrent.  Chambers had come up at last, come to hurl his fresh troops into the gap, and change the tide of battle.  Even the stragglers paused, hastening to escape the rush, and facing again to the front.  I saw some among them grasp their guns and leap into the ranks, the speeding cavalrymen driving others with remorseless sabres.