Southern Historical Society Papers, Volume 11.
Reverend J. William Jones, Ed.

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[147] them, while we, cut off and almost powerless, make such resistance as we may. Haste thee, Master Shields. ‘What thou doest do quickly’! for Nemesis is coming, and thy time is short—too short, alas! for Shields, for mortal man; for lo! yonder, one hath clattered through the bridge, and bounding up the heights where the forces lay, pressing his steed with burning spurs, his visage all aglow and blue eye blazing, and shouts: ‘Beat the Long Roll!’ Drums roll with palpitating throb; men spring to the ranks, cannoneers harness; and ere Shields can brush away the flimsy obstacles between him and the trains, already Jackson comes streaming back with Poague's battery and Fulkerson's tall riflemen—streaming down the hill, a flashing torrent. There is one crash of thunder, one ringing volley, one wild yell; the bayonets gleam through the shadowy cavern of the bridge, and the thing is done. Hostile cannon lie disabled, horses weltering around them in blood; intruders flee pell-mell, splashing through the stream, whither they came; while Jackson stands alone, over on the green hillside, still, calm, and reverent, his hand lifted in prayer and thanksgiving that the village is won again. But it is only for a moment, for he knows what more remains to be done. He remounts the heights, and there, sure enough, is Shields's army advancing up the meadows from Lewiston, ranks dressed, banners flying, in all the bravery of their pomp. Jackson utters a few quiet words, and Poague's guns, reinforced by others, remove to the next hill, depress their grim muzzles, and rain down an iron storm across the river, which lashes Shields back to his covert.

Jackson trusted Providence, and here Providence took care of him in a most timely way. Our Colonel Crutchfield, detained amidst his captors in the village street, shall tell how the intervention looked from his point of view. The cavalry Colonel commanding Shields's advance had not more than disarmed him, when a Yankee vidette, who had ventured a little up the Staunton Road, came hurrying back, his eyes glaring with elation, and exclaimed: ‘Colonel Carrell! you have as good as got Jackson's trains; they are right above here, in sight; I have seen thousands of the white wagon-covers shining! You have nothing to do but ride forward and take them.’ ‘Yes!’ avouched Crutchfield's despairing thought, ‘he has them! There are no train-guards, and those white sheets, as I wofully know, are the covers of my ordnance-train, containing all the artillery ammunition and most of the other for the whole army. Colonel Carrell may not remain here permanently, but nothing can prevent his riding thither and doing irreparable mischief before Jackson's return.’