Near the end of the day's march General Jackson rode to the head of his column. There, on a great stone, he stood gazing as his soldiers passed. It was sunset. His face was darkened by exposure; his uniform was soiled and dingy, but his figure was rigid, and his expression, though stern, was radiant with hope. Before him passed in review his faithful men and their devoted leader. * * * And now some of those men of the old Stonewall brigade were before him. Jackson could not repress their enthusiasm. In vain he sent to them to be silent; in vain urged them not to make known their presence to the enemy by their cheers. Such considerations had been urged to the first troops passing, and they had repressed their desires, giving token of their expressions of confidence and admiration for their commander by silently swinging their caps in the air. But the men of the old brigade, now grown into a division, could not repress their shouts. They cheered tumultuously. ‘It is of no use,’ said Jackson; ‘you see,’ turning to one of his staff, ‘I can't stop them.’ Then he added, ‘who could not conquer with such men as these?’Alas! alas!! alas!!! We halted, as you well recollect, late on Tuesday evening within a mile or two of Manassas Junction, and lay there for the night, worn and weary, but ready for whatever might happen the next morning. General Trimble, with two regiments of his command, pressed on and secured the depot that night with but little resistance, and happily with but little loss—fifteen killed and wounded. By day
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