The enemy had to be kept running. They could be crushed now. General "Stonewall" Jackson would not give them a chance to reorganize. He never liked the nickname "Stonewall". It was too pretentious, and he was a humble man before God. It was the men who stood that day at Manassas . He only gave the orders.

"Press on! Press on!" he shouted from the back of the gentle Little Sorrel. "Keep moving toward United States Ford! They must not escape over the river!" For the last two hours, he had been riding forward to urge his men on, his staff hard pressed to keep up. Each time wild cries of victory echoed through the murky forest, he looked skyward and gave thanks to the Lord.

One of his young staff officers rode up to him. In the gloom he recognized him, it was his wife Anna's younger brother, Lieutenant Joseph Morrison. "General Jackson, they are running too fast for us. We can't keep up with them," Morrison said in jest. He turned a stern gaze on the youth and replied, "They never run too fast for me, sir."

The attack sputtered to a halt in the darkness. An unearthly lull settled over the battlefield. The rising moonlight that penetrated the thick tangle of woods illuminated drifting smoke hanging low to the ground, giving the wilderness a dreamlike quality. He reined in Little Sorrel, the staff slowly gathering around him. He looked past them to where he could see a red glow low to the ground south of the turnpike. Another, then yet another. He wanted to ride on to the confused tangle of Colston's and Rodes' troops and tell them to keep pressing  the enemy, but he felt the dead weight of dismay. He could not see anything in front of him and knew they could not as well. An attack in the dark made no sense in a tangled place like this.

"My, God. That glow. The woods are on fire!"  announced another staff officer, riding up to them. The acrid smell of powder and smoke from the fires permeated the air. The wounded called for help. Pleading, crying, distant screams told of those caught in the fires. The dream was a nightmare, but his will was steel. No time to mourn. Men lived or died by God's will. He grew impatient. The moon brightened and light cut through the darkness. He could see the shapes of his staff around him, the glint off horses' bits and metal scabbards, the path of a road in the milky gloom. God was showing the way.

He rode over to one of his staff officers. "Tell A.P. Hill to move forward, relieve Rodes's troops and prepare for a night attack." Hill, a Mexican War veteran, handsome and volatile, he trusted above all other of his division commanders. The officer rode away into the moon shadows.

He knew the Federal troops were out there, perhaps not too far away. He checked his watch. It was 9 p.m. He could waste no more time. He rode on ahead himself, along a trail with several of his staff officers to scout the enemy lines near the Plank Road. Through the darkness broken only by small pools of moonlight, they moved slowly over unfamiliar ground through thickets and tangles of briars, working their way towards enemy lines. They turned down a small road. He strained to hear, stopped the horse. There was the clear sound of digging, the cracks of axes and crash of trees being felled for enemy breastworks. Orders were shouted, echoing through the woods. They were closer than he thought. But, then again, sounds always carry further at night. He motioned to the staff and they began moving down the trail.

The deafening blast of a cannon, one of Hill's by location, sent a pointless blind shot toward the Federal lines. Several bright flashes answered. Tree limbs shattered and fell from above. They kept moving through the dark. A burst of musket fire came from their front. An answering volley exploded in the woods to their right. A hand touched his shoulder and he heard the anxious whisper of Lieutenant Morrison, "Sir, this is no place for you. We are well beyond our lines."

He held up his hand and the little group stopped. He understood now, his attack would have to wait for morning. "You are correct, Lieutenant. Let us return to the road." He turned Little Sorrel away and his staff followed him, all working their way quickly along the trail. There was movement in the brush ahead. "Halt! Who goes thar?" a voice demanded.  "It?s Yankee cavalry! Fire!" came a sharp command. A volley lit up the woods, tearing through their group. Officers fell. Horses screamed, plunged and went down. How could this be? "Cease firing!" Lieutenant Morrison, shouted at the pickets in the darkness. "You are firing into your own men!" "Who gave that order? It's a lie!" came a derisive answer from an officer obviously used to deceits. "Pour it into them, boys!" Another volley raked them. He spun Little Sorrel around, tried to reach the shelter of the trees on the other side of the trail. He felt the sharp blow as a bullet struck his right hand and two more punched hard into his left arm. There was mo pain yet, only shock, disbelief and the wet warmth of blood.