At some point on the road Booker turned to observe the dislocated column and accosted Sergeant Gibbons whom I have named as affirming with others that the bugle calls of _retire_ and _double_ gave origin to the retreat. This general of brigade, who had been so grand yesterday, that “he looked and talked as if able to command fifty thousand men,” and who at Port Colborne had asserted his seniority and displaced the officer who came in command from Toronto, now murmured in whining tone, and broken speech; “Sergeant, I suppose this is not your first engagement with an enemy? It is mine.” He gave the horse to carry a sick man, and on this his apologists form a claim for magnanimity. It would have been the attitude of a General to remain mounted, especially on the retreat, that his person might be observed, his place known, his command heard. A true soldier, while modest, mild, keenly perceptive that necessary equipments were present with his force, while days were pleasant and peaceful, would have now risen with the crisis, firm in his saddle, firm in mind, lofty with the great emergency, to retrieve order out of confusion. But Brigadier-General Booker straddled on foot a little while, then got on the horse a little while, got down again, and again ambled on foot, seeking sociality with the bugler, the groom, the sergeant, abjectly mumbling that he had never previously been in battle; then getting hold of a Lieutenant’s arm said; “I am a failure; I have failed; I acknowledge my failure.” And to a Captain uttering words to the same effect. And at Port Colborne continuing his abject confession to others.