Southern Historical Society Papers, Volume 2.
Reverend J. William Jones, Ed.

[276] men, ringing pistol shots, the clattering fire of cavalry carbines, the dull roar of the guns — then, on a sudden, the headlong pace of “Runaway down.” The woods were now all ablaze, for Wilson had fired his trains, and the infantry and artillery, pressing forward through the stifling heat and smoke, were greeted by a sight not soon to be forgotten — a score or two of Federal troopers, in gaily-trimmed jackets, lying dead upon their faces in the dusty road — pistols, carbines, sabres, scattered over the ground in wildest profusion — a long line of ambulances filled with wounded men, who gave vent to piteous moans — a confused mass of guns, caissons, supply and ordnance wagons, dead horses, stolen vehicles of all kinds, from the wonderful “one-horse shay” to the old family carriage, all of them crammed with books, bacon, looking-glasses, and ladies' wearing apparel of every description, from garments of mysterious pattern to dresses of the finest stuff — while cowering along the road side were nearly a thousand fugitive negroes, the poor creatures almost pallid with fright, the pickaninnies roaring lustily, several of the women in the pangs of childbirth. Nor was this shameful pillage on the part of the men to be wondered at, for in the head-quarter wagon of the commanding general was found much plunder — among other articles of stolen silver a communion-service inscribed “Saint John's Church, Cumberland Parish, Lunenburg.” ¹