tes were gathering in
Virginia, with the principal force at Manassas, about twenty-five
miles southwest of Washington, under the command of General
Beauregard. The Union troops, composed mainly of three months'
volunteers, were in camp occupying the region about Washington on
both banks of the Potomac River, under the immediate command of
General McDowell, but with Lieutenant General Scott in full command.
I frequently visited the Union camps where the soldiers, fresh from
civil life and confident of easy success over the "rebels," were
being drilled. The cry was, "On to Richmond!" They could not
foresee the magnitude of the task they had undertaken. I will not
attempt to narrate the incidents of the Battle of Bull Run. I knew
it was to be fought on Sunday, the 21st of July. Soon after noon
of that day I mounted my horse, and with James Rollins, a Member
of Congress from Missouri, called on General Scott, and inquired
for news of the battle then going on. He told us he was quite sure
of a favorable result, but feared the loss of his gallant officers
as, the troops being raw, it would be necessary for their officers
to lead them. We crossed the pontoon bridge from Georgetown, and
then, passing by Arlington, we went to a new fort on the main road
from the Long Bridge. As we approached we could hear the distant
firing of cannon. We asked a sentinel on duty if he had heard the
sound all day. He said, "Yes, but not so loud as now." This was
significant but not encouraging. We returned to my lodgings on
Fifteenth street. Everywhere there was an uneasy feeling. At
eight o'clock in the morning I started for the residence of the
Secretary of War to get information of the battle. As I approached
I was seized by the arm, and, turning, saw Secretary Cameron. I
asked about the battle, but, without answering, he hurried me into
the house and said: "Our army is defeated, and my brother is killed."
He then gave way to passionate grief. His brother, Colonel Cameron,
had been killed, and the Union army was in full retreat. I was
enjoined to say nothing until morning. I obeyed his injunction.
At eleven o'clock that night I heard the clatter of a horse's feet
in full gallop. My nephew, Robert McComb, a boy about nineteen,
a private soldier in an Ohio regiment, but detailed as an orderly,
had been sent to the rear with a message. He saw the army in
retreat, and, being well mounted and believing that discretion was
th