“Cut to Pieces”: William Howard Russell at the Battle of First Bull Run

William Howard Russell, a groundbreaking war correspondent, became well-known for his reporting on the Crimean War. In 1861, he arrived in the U.S. with the intention of covering the conflict and witnessed the retreat at Bull Run. His thorough report of the event ruffled some feathers in Washington.

I sit down to give an account — not of the action yesterday, but of what I saw with my own eyes, hitherto not often deceived, and of what I heard with my own ears, which in this country are not so much to be trusted. Let me, however, express an opinion as to the affair of yesterday. In the first place, the repulse of the Federalists, decided as it was, might have had no serious effects whatever beyond the mere failure — which politically was of greater consequence than it was in a military sense — but for the disgraceful conduct of the troops. The retreat on their lines at Centreville seems to have ended in a cowardly rout — a miserable, causeless panic. Such scandalous behavior on the part of soldiers I should have considered impossible, as with some experience of camps and armies I have never even in alarms among camp-followers seen the like of it. How far the disorganization of the troops extended, I know not; but it was complete in the instance of more than one regiment. Washington this morning is crowded with soldiers without officers, who have fled from Centreville, and with "three months' men," who are going home from the face of the enemy on the expiration of their term of enlistment. The streets, in spite of the rain, are crowded by people with anxious faces, and groups of wavering politicians are assembled at the corners, in the hotel passages, and the bars. If, in the present state of the troops, the Confederates were to make a march across the Potomac above Washington, turning the works at Arlington, the Capitol might fall into their hands. Delay may place that event out of the range of probability.

The retreat of the Federal army under General McDowell is depicted here, showing the panic among the teamsters and a general stampede towards Arlington Heights (LC)

The North will, no doubt, recover the shock. Hitherto she has only said, “Go and fight for the Union.” The South has exclaimed, “Let us fight for our rights." The North must put its best men into the battle, or she will inevitably fail before the energy, the personal hatred, and the superior fighting powers of her antagonist. In my letters, as in my conversation, I have endeavored to show that the task which the Unionists have set themselves is one of no ordinary difficulty; but in the state of arrogance and supercilious confidence, either real or affected to conceal a sense of weakness, one might as well have preached to the pyramid of Cheops. Indeed, one may form some notion of the condition of the public mind by observing that journals conducted avowedly by men of disgraceful personal character — the be-whipped, and be-kicked, and unrecognized pariahs of society in New York — are, nevertheless, in the very midst of repulse and defeat, permitted to indulge in ridiculous rhodomontade toward the nations of Europe, and to move our laughter by impotently malignant attacks on “our rotten old monarchy,” while the stones of their brand-new Republic are tumbling about their ears. It will be amusing to observe the change of tone, for we can afford to observe and to be amused at the same time.

The press pass issued by General Scott to W.H. Russell would have appeared similar to the one shown here. It was issued to William Conant Church, a correspondent of the New York Times (Smithsonian Institute)

On Saturday night I resolved to proceed to Gen. McDowell's army, as it was obvious to me that the repulse at Bull Run and the orders of the General directed against the excesses of bis soldiery indicated serious defects in his army — not more serious, however, than I had reason to believe existed. How to get out was the difficulty. The rumors of great disaster and repulse had spread through the city. The livery stable keepers, with one exception, refused to send out horses to the scene of action — at least the exception told me so. Senators and Congressmen were going to make a day of it, and all the vehicles and horses that could be procured were in requisition for the scene of action. This curiosity was aroused by the story that McDowell had been actually ordered to make an attack on Manassas, and that Gen. Scott had given him till 12 o'clock to be master of Beauregard's lines. If Gen. Scott ordered the attack at all, I venture to say he was merely the mouthpiece of the more violent civilians of the Government, who mistake intensity of feeling for military strength. The consequences of the little skirmish at Bull Run, ending in the repulse of the Federalists, were much exaggerated, and their losses were put down at any figures the fancy of the individual item who was speaking suggested. "I can assure you, sir, that the troops had 1,500 killed and wounded; I know it," I went off to the headquarters, and there Gen. Scott's aide informed me that Gen. McDowell's official report gave 6 killed and 37 wounded. The livery keepers stuck to the 1,500 or 2,000. The greater the number hors de combat, the higher the tariff for the hire of quadrupeds. All I could do was to get a kind of cabriolet, with a seat in front for the driver, to which a pole was affixed for two horses, at a Derby-day price, a strong led horse, which Indian experiences have induced me always to rely upon in the neighborhood of uncertain fighting. I had to enter into an agreement with the owner to pay him for horses and buggy if they were "captured or injured by the enemy," and though I smiled at his precautions, they proved not quite unreasonable. The master made no provision for indemnity in the case of injury to the driver, or the colored boy who rode the saddlehorse. 

A British cartoon image which appeared in Punch of William Howard Russell pursuing his literary craft in the field (Punch Magazine, October 8, 1881)

When I spoke with officers at Gen. Scott's headquarters of the expedition, it struck me they were not at all sanguine about the result of the day, and one of them said as much as induced me to think he would advise me to remain in the city, if he did not take it for granted it was part of my duty to go to the scene of action. An English gentleman who accompanied me was strongly dissuaded from going by a colonel of cavalry on the staff, because, he said, "the troops are green, and no one can tell what may happen." But my friend got his pass from Gen. Scott, who was taking the whole affair of Bull Run and the pressure of the morrow's work with perfect calm, and we started on Sunday morning — not so early as we ought, perhaps, which was none of my fault — for Centreville, distant about 25 miles southwest of Washington. I purposed starting in the beautiful moonlight, so as to arrive at McDowell's camp in the early dawn; but the aides could not or would not give us the countersign over the Long Bridge, and without it no one could get across until after 5 o'clock in the morning. When McDowell moved away, he took so many of the troops about Arlington that the camps and forts are rather denuded of men. I do not give, as may be observed, the names of regiments, unless in special cases — first, because they possess little interest, I conceive, for those in Europe who read these letters; and secondly, because there is an exceedingly complex system — at least to a foreigner — of nomenclature in the forces, and one may make a mistake between a regiment of volunteers and a regiment of State militia of the same number, or even of regulars in the lower figures. The soldiers lounging about the forts and over the Long Bridge across the Potomac were an exceedingly unkempt, "loafing" set of fellows, who handled their firelocks like pitchforks and spades, and I doubt if some of those who read or tried to read our papers could understand them, as they certainly did not speak English. The Americans possess excellent working materials, however, and I have had occasion repeatedly to remark the rapidity and skill with which they construct earthworks. At the Virginia side of the Long Bridge there is now a very strong tete de pont, supported by the regular redoubt on the hill over the road. These works did not appear to be strongly held, but it is possible men were in the tents near at hand, deserted though they seemed, and at all events reinforcements could be speedily poured in if necessary.

In the first year of the war, the Long Bridge, over which the road to Alexandria passed, in the evening the Virginia side was guarded by a company of flying artillery with the draw raised in front of them. in the daylight hours travel was unobstructed with wagons passing freely. The bridge was one mile long with the width of three carriages with draws on both the District of Columbia side and Virginia side (Harper’s Weekly, May 18, 1861)

The long and weary way was varied by different pickets along the road, and by the examination of our papers and passes at different points. But the country looked vacant, in spite of crops of Indian corn, for the houses were shut up, and the few indigenous people whom we met looked most blackly under their brows at the supposed abolitionists. This portion of Virginia is well wooded, and undulating in heavy, regular waves of field and forest; but the roads are deeply cut, and filled with loose stones, very disagreeable to ride or drive over. The houses are of wood, with the usual negro huts adjoining them, and the specimens of the race which I saw were well-dressed, and not ill-looking. On turning into one of the roads which leads to Fairfax Courthouse, and to Centreville beyond it, the distant sound of cannon reached us. That must have been about 9:30 a.m. It never ceased all day; at least, whenever the rattle of the gig ceased, the booming of cannon rolled through the woods on our ears. One man said it began at 2 o'clock, but the pickets told us it had really become continuous about 7:30 or 8 o'clock. In a few minutes afterward, a body of men appeared on the road, with their backs toward Centreville, and their faces toward Alexandria. Their march was so disorderly that I could not have believed they were soldiers in an enemy's country — for Virginia hereabout is certainly so — but for their arms and uniform. It soon appeared that there was no less than an entire regiment marching away, singly or in small knots of two or three, extending for some three or four miles along the road. A Babel of tongues rose from them, and they were all in good spirits, but with an air about them I could not understand. Dismounting at a stream where a group of thirsty men were drinking and halting in the shade, I asked an officer, "Where are your men going, sir?" 

"Well, we're going home, sir, I reckon, to Pennsylvania." It was the 4th Pennsylvania Regiment, which was on its march, as I learned from the men. 

“I suppose there is severe work going on behind you, judging from the firing?" 

"Well, I reckon, sir, there is." 

"We're going home," he added after a pause, during which it occurred to him, perhaps, that the movement required explanation — "because the men's time is up. We have had three months of this work."

““The troops are green, and no one can tell what may happen” ”

— an unknown cavalry staff officer

I proceeded on my way, ruminating on the feelings of a General who sees half a brigade walk quietly away on the very morning of an action, and on the frame of mind of the men, who would have shouted till they were hoarse about their beloved Union — possibly have hunted down any poor creature who expressed a belief that it was not the very quintessence of everything great and good in government, and glorious and omnipotent in arms — coolly turning their backs on it when in its utmost peril, because the letter of their engagement bound them no further. Perhaps the 4th Pennsylvania were right but let us hear no more of the excellence of three months' service volunteers. And so we left them. The road was devious and difficult. There were few persons on their way, for most of the Senators and Congressmen were on before us. Some few commissariat wagons were overtaken at intervals. Wherever there was a house by the roadside, the negroes were listening to the firing. All at once a terrific object appeared in the wood above the trees — the dome of a church or public building, apparently suffering from the shocks of an earthquake, and heaving to and fro in the most violent manner. In much doubt we approached as well as the horses' minds would let us and discovered that the strange thing was an inflated balloon attached to a car and wagon, which was on its way to enable Gen. McDowell to reconnoiter the position he was then engaged in attacking — just a day too late. The operators and attendants swore as horribly as the warriors in Flanders, but they could not curse down the trees, and so the balloon seems likely to fall into the hands of the Confederates. About 11 o'clock we began to enter on the disputed territory which had just been abandoned by the Secessionists to the Federalists in front of Fairfax Court House. It is not too much to say, that the works thrown up across the road were shams and make-believes, and that the Confederates never intended to occupy the position at all, but sought to lure on the Federalists to Manassas, where they were prepared to meet them. Had it been otherwise, the earthworks would have been of a different character, and the troops would have had regular camps and tents, instead of bivouac huts and branches of trees. Of course, the troops of the enemy did not wish to be cut off, and so they had cut down trees to place across the road and put some fieldpieces in their earthworks to command it. On no side could Richmond be so well defended. The Confederates had it much at heart to induce their enemy to come to the strongest place and attack them, and they succeeded in doing so. But, if the troops behaved as ill in other places as they did at Manassas, the Federalists could not have been successful in any attack whatever. 

This image of a northern Virginia family with a laden wagon pulled by mules would have been similar to those encountered by W.H. Russell. This photograph was displayed in Matthew Brady's album gallery with the following encryption: "And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, far, far away, they children leave the land." (LC)

It was noon when we arrived at Fairfax Court House — a poor village of some 30 or 40 straggling wooden and brick houses, deriving its name from the building in which the Circuit Court of the county is held, I believe, and looking the reverse of flourishing — and one may remark, obiter, that the state of this part of Virginia cannot be very prosperous, inasmuch as there was not a village along the road up to this point, and no shops or depots, only one mill, one blacksmith and wheelwright. The village was held by a part of the reserve of McDowell's force, possibly 1,000 strong. The inhabitants were, if eyes spoke truth, secessionists to a man, woman and child, and even the negroes looked extra black, as if they did not care about being fought for. A short way beyond this village, Germantown, the scene of the recent excesses of the Federalists, afforded evidence in its blackened ruins that Gen. McDowell's censure was more than needed. 

The chimney  stacks, being of  brick, are the sole remains of the few good houses in the village. Here our driver made a mistake, which was the rather persisted in, that a colored chattel informed us we could get to Centreville by the route we were pursuing, instead of turning back to Germantown, as we should have done. Centreville was still seven miles ahead. The guns sounded, however, heavily from the valleys. Rising above the forest tops appeared the blue masses of the Alleghanies, and we knew Manassas was somewhere on an outlying open of the ridges, which reminded me in color and form of the hills around the valley of Baidar. A Virginian who came out of a cottage, and who was assuredly no descendant of Madame Esmond, told us that we were "going wrong right away." There was, he admitted, a byroad somewhere to the left front, but people who had tried its depths had returned to Germantown with the conviction that it led to any place but Centreville. Our driver, however, wished to try "if there were no Seseshers about?" 

"What did you say?" quoth the Virginian.

 "I want to know if there are any Secessionists there." 

"Secessionists!" (in a violent surprise, as if he had heard of them for the first time in his life.)

"No, Sir-ee, Secessionists indeed!" 

The news of the approaching battle at Bull Run on July 21, 1861, attracted a diverse group of sightseers and onlookers from Washington D.C. They were eager to witness the defeat of the rebel army and the end of the crisis. However, the retreat of General McDowell's army and their hurried return to the capital became the subject of legend. Correspondent W.H. Russell's report provided the initial coverage of this disastrous event (Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper)

And all this time Beauregard was pounding away on our left front, some six or seven miles off. The horses retraced their steps, the colored youth who bestrode my charger complaining that the mysterious arrangement which condemns his race to slavery was very much abraded by the action of that spirited quadruped, combined, or rather at variance with the callosities of the English saddle. From Germantown, onward by the right road, there was nothing very remarkable. At one place a group of soldiers were buying "Secession money" from some negroes, who looked as if they could afford to part with it as cheaply as men do who are dealing with other people's property. Buggies and wagons with cargoes of senators, were overtaken. The store cars became more numerous. At last Centreville appeared in sight — a few houses on our front, beyond which rose a bald hill — the slopes covered with bivouac huts, commissariat carts and horses, and the top crested with spectators of the fight. The road on each side was full of traces of Confederate camps; the houses were now all occupied by Federalists. In the rear of the hill was a strong body of infantry — two regiments of foreigners, mostly Germans, with a battery of light artillery. Our buggy was driven up to the top of the hill. The colored boy was dispatched to the village to look for a place to shelter the horses while they were taking a much required feed, and to procure, if possible, a meal for himself and the driver. On the hill there were carriages and vehicles drawn up as if they were attending a small country race. They were afterwards engaged in a race of another kind. In one was a lady with an opera glass; in and around and on others were legislators and politicians. There were also a few civilians on horseback, and on the slope of the hill a regiment had stacked arms and was engaged in looking at and commenting on the battle below. The landscape in front was open to the sight as far as the ranges of the Alleghanies, which swept round from the right in blue mounds, the color of which softened into violet in the distance. On the left the view was circumscribed by a wood, which receded along the side of the hill on which we stood to the plain below. Between the base of the hill, which rose about 150 feet above the general level of the country, and the foot of the lowest and nearest elevation of the opposite Alleghanies, extended about five miles, as well as I could judge, of a densely wooded country, dotted at intervals with green fields and patches of cleared lands. It was marked by easy longitudinal undulations, indicated by the form of the forests which clothed them, and between two of the more considerable ran small streams, or "runs," as they are denominated, from the right to the left. Close at hand a narrow road descended the hill, went straight into the forest, where it was visible now and then among the trees in cream-colored patches. This road was filled with commissariat wagons, the white tops of which were visible for two miles in our front.

“On the hill there were carriages and vehicles drawn up as if they were attending a small country race. They were afterwards engaged in a race of another kind.”

— W.H. Russell

On our left front a gap in the lowest chain of the hills showed the gap of Manassas, and to the left and nearer to me lay the "Junction" of the same name, where the Alexandria Railway unites with the rail from the west of Virginia and continues the route by rails of various denominations to Richmond. The scene was so peaceful, a man might well doubt the evidence of one's sense that a great contest was being played out below in bloodshed, or imagine, as Mr. Seward sometimes does, that it was a delusion when he wakes in the morning and finds there is civil war upon him. But the cannon spoke out loudly from the green bushes, and the plains below were mottled, so to speak, by puffs of smoke and by white rings from bursting shells and capricious howitzers. It was no review that was going on beneath us. The shells gave proof enough of that, though the rush of the shot could not be heard at the distance. Clouds of dust came up in regular lines through the tree tops where infantry were acting, and now and then their wavering mists of light blue smoke curled up, and the splutter of musketry broke through the booming of the guns. With the glass I could detect, now and then, the flash of arms through the dust clouds in the open, but no one could tell to which side the troops who were moving belonged, and I could only judge from the smoke whether the gunfire toward or away from the hill. It was evident that the dust in the distance on our right extended beyond that which rose from the Federalists. The view toward the left, as I have said, was interrupted, but the firing was rather more heavy there than on the front or right flank, and a glade was pointed out in the forest as the beginning of Bull or Poole's Bun, on the other side of which the Confederates were hid in force, though they had not made any specific reply to the shells thrown into their cover early in the morning. There seemed to be a continuous line, which was held by the enemy, from which came steady solid firing against what might be supposed to be heads of columns stationed at various points or advancing against them. It was necessary to feed the horses and give them some rest after a hot drive of some 26 or 27 miles, or I would have proceeded at once to the front. As I was watching the faces of the Senators and Congressmen, I thought I had heard or read of such a scene as this — but there was much more to come. The soldiers, who followed each shot with remarks in English or German, were not as eager as men generally are in watching a fight. Once, as a cloud of thick smoke ascended from the trees, a man shouted out, "That's good; we've taken another battery: there goes the magazine." But it looked like, and I believe was, the explosion of a caisson. In the midst of our little reconnaissance, Mr. Vizetelly, who has been living, and indeed marching, with one of the regiments as artist of The Illustrated London News, came up and told us the action had been commenced in splendid style by the Federalists, who had advanced steadily, driving the Confederates before them — a part of the plan, as I firmly believe, to bring them under the range of their guns. He believed the advantages on the Federal side were decided, though won with hard fighting, and he had just come up to Centreville to look after something to eat and drink, and to procure little necessaries, in case of need, for his comrades. His walk very probably saved his life. Having seen all that could be discerned through our glasses, my friend and myself had made a feast on our sandwiches in the shade of the buggy; my horse was eating and resting, and I was forced to give him half an hour or more before I mounted, and meantime tried to make out the plan of battle, but all was obscure and dark. Suddenly up rode an officer, with a crowd of soldiers after him, from the village.                              "We've whipped them on all points!" He shouted. "We've taken their batteries, and they're all retreating!" 

The best-laid plans of General Irwin McDowell and his staff, depicted here on the steps of Arlington House, were thwarted on the plains of Manassas on July 21, 1861.

Such an uproar as followed! The spectators and men cheered again and again, amid cries of "Bravo" "Bully for us!" "Didn't I tell you so?" and guttural "hochs" from the Deutschland folk, and loud "hurroors" from the Irish. Soon afterward my horse was brought up to the hill, and my friend and the gentleman I have already mentioned set out to walk toward the front — the latter to rejoin his regiment, if possible, the former to get a closer view of the proceedings. As I turned down into the narrow road or lane already mentioned, there was a forward movement among the large four wheeled tilt wagons, which raised a good deal of dust. My attention was particularly called to this by the occurrence of a few minutes afterward. I had met my friends on the road, and after a few words, rode forward at a long trot as well as I could past the wagons and through the dust, when suddenly there arose a tumult in front of me at a small bridge across the road, and then I perceived the drivers of a set of wagons with the horses turned toward me, who were endeavoring to force their way against the stream of vehicles setting in the other direction. By the side of the new set of wagons there were a number of commissariat men and soldiers, whom at first sight I took to be the baggage guard. They looked excited and alarmed and were running by the side of the horses — in front the dust quite obscured the view. At the bridge the currents met in wild disorder.

"Turn back! Retreat!" shouted the men from the front. 

"We're whipped! we're whipped!" 

They cursed, and tugged at the horse's heads, and struggled with frenzy to get past. Running by me on foot was a man with the shoulder-straps of an officer. 

"Pray, what is the matter, sir?"

"It means we're pretty badly whipped, and that's a fact," he blurted out in puffs, and continued his career. I observed that he carried no sword. The teamsters of the advancing wagons now caught up the cry. "Turn back — turn your horses!" was the shout up the whole line, and, backing, plunging, rearing, and kicking, the horses which had been proceeding down the road, reversed front and went off toward Centreville. Those behind them went madly rushing on, the drivers being quite indifferent whether glory or disgrace led the way, provided they could find it. In the midst of this extraordinary spectacle, an officer, escorted by some dragoons, rode through the ruck with a light cart in charge. Another officer on foot, with his sword under his arm, ran up against me. 

"What is all this about?" 

"Why, we're pretty badly whipped. We're all in retreat. There's General Tyler there, badly wounded." And on he ran. There came yet another, who said, "We're beaten on all points. The whole army is in retreat." Still there was no flight of troops, no retreat of an army, no reason for all this precipitation. True, there were many men in uniform flying toward the rear, but it did not appear as if they were beyond the proportions of a large baggage escort. I got my horse up into the field out of the road and went on rapidly towards the front. Soon I met soldiers, who were coming through the corn, mostly without arms; and presently I saw firelocks, cooking-tins, knapsacks, and greatcoats on the ground, and observed that the confusion and speed of the baggage carts became greater, and that many of them were crowded with men, or were followed by others, who clung to them. The ambulances were crowded with soldiers, but it did not look as if there were many wounded. Negro servants on led horses dashed frantically past; men in uniform, whom it were a disgrace to the profession of arms to call " soldiers," swarmed by on mules, chargers, and even draught horses, which had been cut out of carts or wagons, and went on with harness clinging to their heels, as frightened as their riders. Men literally screamed with rage and fright when their way was blocked up. 

A unused paper wrapped charge found on the Bull Run battlefield and left in haste by a Rhode Island cavalryman with the hand-written ink inscription: "Carried onto the field at the Battle of Bull Run, July 21, 1861" (American Civil War Museum)

On I rode, asking all, "What is all this about?" and now and then, but rarely, receiving the answer, "We're whipped," or, "We're repulsed." Faces black and dusty, tongues out in the heat, eyes staring — it was a most wonderful sight. On they came, like him,

"Who, having once turned round, goes on, And turns no more his head. For he knoweth that a fearful fiend Doth close behind him tread."

But where was the fiend? I looked in vain. There was, indeed, some cannonading in front of me and in their rear, but still the firing was comparatively distant, and the runaways were far out of range. As I advanced, the number of carts diminished, but the mounted men increased, and the column of fugitives became denser. A few buggies and light wagons filled with men, whose faces would have made up "a great Leporello" in the ghost scene, tried to pierce the rear of the mass of carts, which were now solidified and moving on like a glacier. I crossed a small ditch by the roadside, got out on the road to escape some snake fences, and, looking before me, saw there was still a crowd of men in uniforms coining along. The road was strewn with articles of clothing — firelocks, waist-belts, cartridge-boxes, caps, greatcoats, mess-tins, musical instruments, cartridges, bayonets and sheaths, swords and pistols — even biscuits, water-bottles, and pieces of meat. Passing a white house by the roadside, I saw, for the first time, a body of infantry with sloped arms marching regularly and rapidly towards me. Their faces were not blackened by powder, and it was evident they had not been engaged. In reply to a question, a non-commissioned officer told me in broken English, "We fell back to our lines. The attack did not quite succeed." This was assuring to one who had come through such a scene as I had been witnessing. I had ridden, I suppose, about three or three and a half miles from the hill, though it is not possible to be sure of the distance; when, having passed the white house, I came out on an open piece of ground, beyond and circling which was forest. Two fieldpieces were unlimbered and guarding the road; the panting and jaded horses in the rear looked as though they had been hard worked, and the gunners and drivers looked worn and dejected. Dropping shots sounded close in front through the woods; but the guns on the left no longer maintained their fire. I was just about to ask one of the men for a light, when a sputtering fire on my right attracted my attention, and out of the forest or along the road rushed a number of men. The gunners seized the trail of the nearest piece to wheel it round upon them; others made for the tumbrils and horses as if to fly, when a shout was raised, "Don't fire; they're our own men," and in a few minutes on came pell-mell a whole regiment in disorder. I rode across one and stopped him. 

“Drivers flogged, lashed, spurred, and beat their horses or leaped down and abandonded their teams and ran by the ide of the road. ”

— W.H. Russell

"We're pursued by cavalry," he gasped, "they've cut us all to pieces." 

As he spoke, a shell burst over the column; another dropped on the road, and out streamed another column of men, keeping together with their arms, and closing up the stragglers of the first regiment. I turned, and to my surprise saw the artillerymen had gone off, leaving one gun standing by itself. They had retreated with their horses. While we were on the hill, I had observed and pointed out to my companions a cloud of doubt which rose through the trees on our right front. In my present position that place must have been on the right rear, and it occurred to me that after all there really might be a body of cavalry in that direction; but Murat himself would not have charged these wagons in that deep, well-fenced lane. If the dust came, as I believe it did, from field artillery, that would be a different matter. Any way it was now well established that the retreat had really commenced, though I saw but few wounded men, and the regiments which were falling back had not suffered much loss. No one seemed to know anything for certain. Even the cavalry charge was a rumor. Several officers said they had carried guns and lines, but then they drifted into the nonsense which one reads and hears everywhere about "masked batteries." One or two talked more sensibly about the strong positions of the enemy, the fatigue of their men, the want of a reserve, severe losses, and the bad conduct of certain regiments. Not one spoke as if he thought of retiring beyond Centreville. The clouds of dust rising above the woods marked the retreat of the whole army, and the crowds of fugitives continued to steal away along the road. The sun was declining, and some thirty miles yet remained to be accomplished ere I could hope to gain the shelter of Washington. No one knew whither any corps or regiment was marching, but there were rumors of all kinds — "The 69th are cut to pieces," "The Fire Zouaves are destroyed," and so on. Presently a tremor ran through the men by whom I was riding, as the sharp reports of some fieldpieces rattled through the wood close at hand. A sort of subdued roar, like the voice of distant breakers, rose in front of us, and the soldiers, who were, I think, Germans, broke into a double, looking now and then over their shoulders. There was no choice for me but to resign any further researches. The mail from Washington for the Wednesday  steamer at Boston leaves at 2:30 on Monday, and so I put my horse into a trot, keeping in the fields alongside the roads as much as I could, to avoid the fugitives, till I came once more on the rear of the baggage and store carts, and the pressure of the crowd, who, conscious of the aid which the vehicles would afford them against a cavalry charge, and fearful, nevertheless, of their proximity, clamored and shouted like madmen as they ran. The road was now literally covered with baggage. It seemed to me as if the men inside were throwing the things out purposely. 

"Stop," cried I to the driver of one of the carts, "everything is falling out." 

"You," shouted a fellow inside, "if you stop him, I'll blow your brains out." My attempts to save Uncle Sam's property were then and there discontinued.

The painting Capture of Rickett's Battery, depicting action during the First Battle of Bull Run. the battery was overrun after being met with Confederate cannon, small arms fire and an infantry assault (Sidney E. King, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons)

On approaching Centreville, a body of German infantry of the reserve came marching down and stemmed the current in some degree; they were followed by a brigade of guns and another battalion of fresh troops. I turned up on the hill half a mile beyond. The vehicles had all left but two — my buggy was gone. A battery of field-guns was in position where we had been standing. The men looked well. As yet there was nothing to indicate more than a retreat, and some ill-behavior among the waggoners and the riff raff of different regiments. Centreville was not a bad position properly occupied, and I saw no reason why it should not be held if it was meant to renew the attack, nor any reason why the attack should not be renewed, if there had been any why it should have been made. I swept the field once more. The clouds of dust were denser and nearer. That was all. There was no firing — no musketry. I turned my horse's head and rode away through the village, and after I got out upon the road the same confusion seemed to prevail. Suddenly the guns on the hill opened, and at the same time came the thuds of artillery from the wood on the right rear. The stampede then became general. What occurred at the hill I cannot say, but all the road from Centreville for miles presented such a sight as can only be witnessed in the track of the runaways of an utterly demoralized army. Drivers flogged, lashed, spurred, and beat their horses, or leaped down and abandoned their teams, and ran by the side of the road; mounted men, servants, and men in uniform, vehicles of all sorts, commissariat wagons, thronged the narrow ways. At every shot a convulsion, as it were, seized upon the morbid mass of bones, sinew, wood, and iron, and thrilled through it, giving new energy and action to its desperate efforts to get free from itself. Again, the cry of "Cavalry" arose. 

"What are you afraid of? " Said I to a man who was running beside me. "I'm not afraid of you!" Replied the ruffian, levelling his piece at me, and pulling the trigger. It was not loaded, or the cap was not on, for the gun did not go off. I was unarmed, and I did go off as fast I could resolved to keep my own counsel for the second time that day. And so, the flight went on. At one time a whole mass of infantry, with fixed bayonets, ran down the bank of the road, and some falling as they ran, must have killed and wounded those among whom they fell. As I knew the road would soon become impassable or blocked up, I put my horse to a gallop and passed on toward the front. But mounted men still rode faster, shouting out, "Cavalry are coming." Again, I ventured to speak to some officers whom I overtook, and said, "If these runaways are not stopped, the whole of the posts and pickets in Washington will fly also!" One of them, without saying a word, spurred his horse and dashed on in front. I do not know whether he ordered the movement or not, but the van of the fugitives was now suddenly checked, and, pressing on through the wood at the roadside, I saw a regiment of infantry blocking up the way, with their front towards Centreville. A musket was levelled at my head as I pushed to the front — "Stop, or I'll fire." At the same time the officer were shouting out, "Don't let a soul pass." I addressed one of them, and said, " Sir, I am a British subject. I am not, I assure you, running away. I have done my Lest to stop this disgraceful rout, (as I had,) and have been telling them there are no cavalry within miles of them." 

"I can't let you pass, sir." 

I bethought me of Gen. Scott's pass. The adjutant read it, and the word was given along the line, "Let that man pass!" and so, I rode through, uncertain if I could now gain the Long Bridge in time to pass over without the countersign. It was about this time I met a cart by the roadside surrounded by a group of soldiers, some of whom had "69 " on their caps. The owner, as I took him to be, was in great distress, and cried out as I passed, "Can you tell me, sir, where the 69th are? These men say they are cut to pieces." 

"I can't tell you." 

"I'm in charge of the mails, sir, and I will deliver them if I die for it. You are a gentleman, and I can depend on your word. Is it safe for me to go on?" 

Not knowing the extent of the debacle, I assured him it was, and asked the men of the regiment how they happened to be there. 

"Shure, the Colonel himself told us to go off every man on his own hook, and to fly for our lives!" replied one of them.

Recruited from Norristown, the 4th Pennsylvania enlisted in April 1861 and saw its only combat casualties during picket duty on June 30. their three-month term expired on July 20; while some were willing to stay, most chose to muster out on the prescribed date. Many noted their departure before the battle, including the astute correspondent Russell. To their credit, many in the three-month regiment elected to reenlist and were organized in November 1861 under the banner of the 51st Pennsylvania which served with distinction for the rest of the war. The national colors of the 51st Pennsylvania, worse for wear after four years of use, is shown here.

The mail agent, who told me he was an Englishman, started the cart again. I sincerely hope no bad result to himself, or his charge followed my advice; I reached Fairfax Court House; the people, black and white, with anxious faces, were at the doors, and the infantry were under arms. I was besieged with questions, though hundreds of fugitives had passed through before me. At one house I stopped to ask for water for my horse; the owner sent his servant for it cheerfully, the very house where we had in vain asked for something to eat in the forenoon. 

"There's a fright among them," I observed, in reply to his question respecting the commissariat drivers. 

"They're afraid of the enemy's cavalry." 

"Are you an American?" said the man. 

"No, I am not." 

"Well," he said, "there will be cavalry on them soon enough. There's 20,000 of the best horsemen in the world in Virginia! " 

Washington was still 18 miles away. The road was rough and uncertain, and again my poor steed was under way, but it was of no use trying to outstrip the runaways. Once or twice, I imagined I heard guns in the rear, but I could not be sure of it in consequence of the roar of the flight behind me. It was most surprising to see how far the foot soldiers had contrived to get on in advance. After sunset the moon rose, and amid other acquaintances, I jogged alongside an officer who was in charge of Col. Hunter, the commander of a brigade, I believe, who was shot through the neck, and was inside a cart, escorted by a few troopers. This officer was, as I understood, the major or second in command of Col. Hunter's regiment, yet he had considered it right to take charge of his chief, and to leave his battalion. He said they had driven back the enemy with ease, but had not been supported, and blamed — as bad officers and good ones will do — the conduct of the General: "So mean a fight I never saw." I was reminded of a Crimean General, who made us all merry by saying, after the first bombardment, "In the whole course of my experience I never saw a siege conducted on such principles as these." Our friend had been without food, but not, I suspect; without drink — and that, we know, affects empty stomachs very much — since two o'clock that morning. Now, what is to be thought of an officer — gallant, he may be, as steel — who says, as I heard this gentleman say to a picket who asked him how the day went in front, "Well, we've been licked into a cocked hat; knocked to." This was his cry to teamsters escorts, convoys, the officers and men on guard and detachment, while I, ignorant of the disaster behind, tried to mollify the effect of the news by adding, "Oh! It’s a drawn battle. The troops are reoccupying the position from which they started in the morning." Perhaps he knew his troops better than I did. It was a strange ride, through a country now still as death, the white road shining like a river in the moonlight, the trees black as ebony in the shade; now and then a figure flitting by into the forest or across the road— frightened friend or lurking foe, who could say? Then the anxious pickets and sentries all asking, "What's the news?" and evidently prepared for any amount of loss. Twice or thrice, we lost our way, or our certainty about it, and shouted at isolated houses, and received no reply, except from angry watchdogs. Then we were set right as we approached Washington, by teamsters. For an hour, however, we seemed to be travelling along a road which, in all its points, far and near, was "twelve miles from the Long Bridge." Up hills, down into valleys, with the silent grim woods forever by our sides. Now and then, in the profound gloom, broken only by a spark from the horse's hoof, came a dull but familiar sound like the shutting of a distant door. As I approached Washington, having left the Colonel and his escort at some seven miles on the south side of the Long Bridge, I found the grand guards, picket's posts, and individual sentries burning for news, and the word used to pass along, "What does that man say, Jack? "

"Begorra, he tells me we're not bet at all — only retreating to the old lines for convenience of fighting to-morrow again. Oh, that's illigant! " On getting to the tete de pout, however, the countersign was demanded; of course, I had not got it. But the officer passed me through on the production of Gen. Scott's safeguard. The lights of the city were in sight; and reflected by the waters of the Potomac, just glistened by the clouded moon, shone the gay lamps of the White House, where the President was probably entertaining some friends. In silence I passed over the Long Bridge. Some few hours later it quivered under the steps of a rabble of unarmed men. At the Washington end a regiment with piled arms were waiting to cross over into Virginia, singing and cheering. Before the morning, they received orders, I believe, to assist in keeping Maryland quiet. For the hundredth time I repeated the cautious account, which to the best of my knowledge was true. There were men, women, and soldiers to hear it. The clocks had just struck 11 p. m. as I passed Willard's. The pavement in front of the hall was crowded. The rumors of defeat had come in, but few of the many who had been fed upon lies and the reports of complete victory which prevailed could credit the intelligence. Seven hours had not elapsed before the streets told the story. The " Grand Army of the North," as it was called, had representatives in every thoroughfare, without arms, orders, or officers, standing out in the drenching rain. When all these most unaccountable phenomena were occurring, I was fast asleep, but I could scarce credit my informant in the morning, when he told me that the Federalists, utterly routed, had fallen back upon Arlington to defend the capital, leaving nearly 5 batteries of artillery, 8,000 muskets, immense quantities of stores and baggage, and their wounded prisoners in the hands of the enemy!

The three-months men of the Third Connecticut were attached to Tyler's division of McDowell's army but saw little action in the battle of Bull Run. Their total losses, including sickness, amounted to five. Many of these men re-enlisted, however, so their fates are unknown (The Photographic History of the Civil War, V. 1)

Let the American journals tell the story their own way. I have told mine as I know it. It has rained incessantly and heavily since early morning, and the country is quite unfit for operations; otherwise, if Mr. Davis desired to press his advantage, he might be now very close to Arlington Heights. He has already proved that he has a fair right to be considered the head of a "belligerent power" But, though the North may reel under the shock, I cannot think it will make her desist from the struggle, unless it be speedily followed by blows more deadly even than the repulse from Manassas. There is much talk now (of " masked batteries," of course) of outflanking, and cavalry, and such matters. The truth seems to be that the men were overworked, kept out for 12 or 14 hours in the sun, exposed to a long-range fire, badly officered, and of deficient regimental organization. Then came a most difficult operation — to withdraw this army, so constituted, out of action, in face of an energetic enemy who had repulsed it. The retirement of the baggage, which was without adequate guards, and was in the hands of ignorant drivers, was misunderstood, and created alarm, and that alarm became a panic, which became frantic on the appearance of the enemy and on the opening of their guns on the runaways. But the North will be all the more eager to retrieve this disaster, although it may divert her from the scheme, which has been suggested to her, of punishing England a little while longer. The exultation of the South can only be understood by those who may see it; and if the Federal Government perseveres in its design to make the Union by force, it may prepare for a struggle the result of which will leave the Union very little to fight for. More of the "battle" in my next. I pity the public across the water, but they must be the victims of hallucinations and myths it is out of my power to dispel or rectify just now. Having told so long a story, I can scarcely expect your readers to have patience, and go back upon the usual diary of events; but the records, such as they are, of this extraordinary repulse, must command attention. It is impossible to exaggerate their importance. No man can predict the results or pretend to guess at them.

credits: William Howard Russell's account of the First Battle of Bull Run was found in many northern newspapers. The text here is from the Rebellion Record

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