Bull Run at Wasioja Civil War Days - Part III

It was the sound of martial music that drew me away from the displays toward the north end of the encampments.
I follwed the band up the muddy road towards the battlefield which was situated near a farmstead along a sloping oak woods and pasture. There a long series of grandstands stood facing the field and a roped off area with a sign that said "civilians do not cross." We found a seat among the crowd....

Directly in front of us, peering over the top of unbrellas, I could see a worried looking farm family gathered on the front lawn. They were talking to a Union officer who was pointing to the edge of the woods. A drizzle was beginning to fall. The sky was darkening ominously.

Shortly thereafter, I noticed on the ridge to the left, Confederate artillery began to appear. Two rebel officers stopped in front of us and began looking to the pasture where the Federal troops were gathering. On the hill another officer held his arm aloft, dropped it and a tremendous roar ensued. Everyone started and the line of cannon disappeared in a flash of flame and billowing smoke.

The Federal artillery responded in kind and an exchange continued for some time as the boys in blue marching abreast slowly began to move up toward the woods firing as they came. Soon the whole battlefield was covered with smoke and the darkening skies unleased buckets of rain upon all. Without a raincoat or umbella ( a lady next to Mrs. T was sharing hers), I was soon soaked to the skin. My intitial thought was that if the soldiers could keep going, I as a patriotic citizen, could do no less. When the shivering set in there were second thoughts on that point. In historical fact, when the Federal army began to be pushed back at Bull Run, a retreat turned into a rout and the vast crowds of gawkers from Washington fled in terror, clogging the roads back to the capitol and adding to the general misery. I decided to follow that historical precident and soon joined the long line of people heading back to the campground and buses.
Along the way we went passed the surgeon's tent where the horrible evidence of the cost of such battles was evident.
It was then that I heard my name being called. Two battlefield angels of mercy, Sharon and Mary Jo, had spotted my soaked and shivering self and sheltered me under a canvas and brought me a steaming hot cup of coffee. Mrs T soon joined us and we decided, in spite of the rainy afternoon, it had been a wonderful day revisiting the past at Wasiojas "Civil War Days" some 150 years after the actural events.
"Angels of the Battlefield" Sharon & Mary Jo