The next day found us retracing our steps to Winchester, everything betokening haste, but no confusion. It soon became known to us that Fremont was rapidly approaching Strasburg from Franklin, and that a force under Shields was moving to the same point to intercept Jackson should he attempt to escape down the Valley. It seemed almost impossible for us to get away, encumbered as we were with four thousand prisoners and over two thousand wagons, most of which were ladened with the spoils captured from Banks; but Jackson had calculated it all, and he knew what his troops could do. All day long we toiled on, and at dusk the rear of the army (of which we were part) passed through Winchester; but with what different feelings and with what a different reception from that of a week before. Then it was amid the exultant shouts of the overjoyed citizens; now it was in sorrow and silence, for it was well known that the victorious army of yesterday was in full retreat to-day. Without a word the troops moved through the almost deserted streets, and all felt a relief when we once more reached the open country. On, on, we pushed, through a drenching rain; and when at last, away in the night, exhausted, and unable to go farther, the men threw themselves down to rest upon the damp ground, it was found we had made thirty-six miles since morning. CHAPTER VIII. Hungry and but little refreshed, we resumed the march at daylight next morning. When six miles from Strasburg the sound of artillery in our front told us how narrow had been our escape. It was the gallant General Charlie Winder contesting a mountain pass with Fremont until the army, with its long train, should pass. We now felt comparatively safe, our greatest fear having been that Fremont would pass the defile before we could throw troops into it. Of Shields we had no fear, as our rapid marching had thrown him far in our rear, and he could not possibly overtake us. Fisher’s Hill was reached late that evening, and all danger being past, the men were allowed some time to rest. Six miles more to make that night, and then we should be compelled to go supperless to bed: for the commissary wagon had stuck in the creek at Newtown, and we had but little doubt it had fallen into the hands of the enemy. It was all the fault of Commissary Captain John Howard, who would insist upon placing in it a barrel of whisky and three barrels of molasses, besides the regiment’s regular rations.