Afternoon of July 29

General Georgia removed his hat and wiped his brow. From horseback, he could still watch the last of the Confederate troops retreating in the distance. The fight had been hard on the eighth and ninth brigades, who withstood the shock of four, possibly five Confederate brigades. He easily recalled the moment he became aware of the attack in his rear. The attacking rebels screamed like banshees. Their whoops and hollers rang in his ears even now, an hour later.

Of course, now, the only sound was that of marching feet and the distant groans dying men.

An aide rode up to General Georgia. “Send the word along, we’ll be pursuing them directly. This campaign ends now.”

“Yes sir!” the aide snapped as he rode off to notify the division commanders.

*

A few miles to the north, General Hebert could only shake his head. Reports were coming in of the losses, which were more than he expected. Colonel Neal, in particular, had not yet rallied even a single regiment of his command, which was routed entirely from the field. In the heat of battle, the kook managed to hold his position and was entirely overrun while every other unit intelligently withdrew. And why? Because he got no order to do so, or so he said. “Fool!” he muttered to himself as he thought about it.

In the west, the sun was finally setting. Hebert noticed for the first time just how exceptionally humid the evening was. He wished he could unbutton his coat, but that wasn't an option. Discipline mattered now more than ever. He put the humidity out of his mind. He had to keep moving to rally the army at New Market. With General Georgia undoubtedly in pursuit, there was no time to waste...