But the Vermonter's slur was not wholly true. Pope was on his way to his
main force, doubtless not really believing that Jackson himself was at
hand. But the little army that he left behind fighting with renewed
energy and valor broke away from the Southern grasp and continued its
march toward that court house, in which the boys could see no merit.
Jackson himself, knowing what great numbers were ahead, was content to
swing away and seek for prey elsewhere.

They emerged from the wood toward morning and saw ahead of them great
masses of troops in blue. They would have shouted with joy, but they
were too tired. Besides, nearly two thousand of their men were killed
or wounded, and they had no victory to celebrate.

Dick ate breakfast with his comrades. The Northern armies nearly always
had an abundance of provisions, and now they were served in plenty.
For the moment, the physical overcame the mental in Dick. It was enough
to eat and to rest and to feel secure. Thousands of friendly faces were
around them, and they would not have to fight in either day or dark for
their lives. Their bones ceased to ache, and the good food and the good
coffee began to rebuild the worn tissues. What did the rest matter?

After breakfast these men who had marched and fought for nearly twenty
hours were told to sleep. Only one command was needed. It was August,
and the dry grass and the soft earth were good enough for anybody.
The three lads, each with an arm under his head, slept side by side.
At noon they were still sleeping, and Colonel Winchester, as he was
passing, looked at the three, but longest at Dick. His gaze was half
affection, half protection, but it was not the boy alone whom he saw.
He saw also his fair-haired young mother in that little town on the
other side of the mountains.