Near the end of the day Jackson rode to the head of the leading brigade, and complimented the officers on the fine condition of the troops and the regularity of the march.  They had made more than twenty miles, and were still moving briskly, well closed up, and without stragglers.  Then, standing by the wayside, he watched his army pass.  The sun was setting, and the rays struck full on his familiar face, brown with exposure, and his dusty uniform.  Ewell’s division led the way, and when the men saw their general, they prepared to salute him with their usual greeting.  But as they began to cheer he raised his hand to stop them, and the word passed down the column, “Don’t shout, boys, the Yankees will hear us;” and the soldiers contented themselves with swinging their caps in mute acclamation.  When the next division passed a deeper flush spread over Jackson’s face.  Here were the men he had so often led to triumph, the men he had trained himself, the men of the Valley, of the First Manassas, of Kernstown, and M’Dowell.  The Stonewall regiments were before him, and he was unable to restrain them; devotion such as theirs was not to be silenced at such a moment, and the wild battle-yell of his own brigade set his pulses tingling.  For once a breach of discipline was condoned.  “It is of no use,” said Jackson, turning to his staff, “you see I can’t stop them;” and then, with a sudden access of intense pride in his gallant veterans, he added, half to himself, “Who could fail to win battles with such men as these?”

It was midnight before the column halted near Salem village, and the men, wearied outright with their march of six-and-twenty miles, threw themselves on the ground by the piles of muskets, without even troubling to unroll their blankets.  So far the movement had been entirely successful.  Not a Federal had been seen, and none appeared during the warm midsummer night.  Yet the soldiers were permitted scant time for rest.  Once more they were aroused while the stars were bright; and, half awake, snatching what food they could, they stumbled forward through the darkness.

August 26.

As the cool breath of the morning rose about them, the dark forests of the Bull Run Mountains became gradually visible in the faint light of the eastern sky, and the men at last discovered whither their general was leading them.  With the knowledge, which spread quickly through the ranks, that they were making for the communications of the boaster Pope, the regiments stepped out with renewed energy.  “There was no need for speech, no breath to spare if there had been—­only the shuffling tramp of marching feet, the rumbling of wheels, the creak and clank of harness and accoutrements, with an occasional order, uttered under the breath, and always the same:  “Close up, men!  Close up!""* (* “Battles and Leaders volume 2 page 533.)