The generous ladies of Washington had arisen to the emergency. Tented booths had been erected, and hot coffee and sandwiches could be had for the asking. Louis was standing up against a tent pole, with a cup in one hand and a corned-beef sandwich in the other, when he was tapped on the shoulder, and turning saw Harry Bingham. “Harry!” he exclaimed, joyfully. “Well, I’m glad to see somebody of our company. Where are the rest?” “Captain Paulding and a dozen others are over in a corner of the White House grounds. I don’t know where the rest are. I was much worried about you. Are you O. K.?” “Yes, excepting that I am dead for sleep. Here’s a fellow who lost his command, too,” and Louis introduced Woolley. The meal finished, the three walked over to the spot Harry Bingham had mentioned. Pennsylvania troops were gathering there, and soon Woolley found several men he knew and went off with them. The meeting between the Goreville volunteers was rather a silent one. Captain Paulding and the other officers did what they could to cheer the men up, but all were too tired to listen; and quarters having been secured in a warehouse on a back street, the little band marched there and “turned in,” to sleep the sleep of the over-weary for many hours to come. Of the company, three had been killed outright, four were slightly wounded and two were still missing. The missing ones turned up the next day. Such, in brief, were the experiences of the young soldiers at the memorable battle of Bull Run, called by Confederate historians the battles of Bull Run and Manassas. To Louis it was decidedly depressing, to Andy it was full of hope for the future. Many of those in the South imagined that the end of the conflict was now close at hand and that it would not be long before the North would call a truce and recognize the new Confederacy. But these people were sadly mistaken; the North had not yet been fairly aroused, and the Civil War, instead of being nearly ended, had but begun. CHAPTER XII ANDY IS TAKEN PRISONER “We’re done for, and we might as well go straight home.” It was Jerry Rowe who spoke. The youth sat on the top of a nail keg in the warehouse. He had been sleeping for a matter of ten hours, and his dreams, resulting from the shocks of the battle and an unusually large supper of pork and beans, had been far from lulling to his senses. He had groaned so dismally that Benny Bruce, already awake and as chipper as ever, had playfully poked him in the ribs with a drumstick and thus aroused him. “Yes, sir, we’re done for. The Union is licked for good, and I’m for going home.” “Jerry Rowe, you’re a croaker and a rebel!” burst from Benny’s lips. “Done for? Not much! Why, we’ve only been through the first round of this fight.” “I don’t care--I don’t want any more such fighting. Why, I--I got near shot a hundred times!”