As the Twenty-fourth gains the fence just spoken of, the enemy having ceased firing entirely, it pauses a moment to breathe and reform its scattered line, preparatory to a last dash — no man thinks of turning back, for the enemy is retreating before them — and here, too, now are their gallant comrades fresh and eager for a share in the struggle. While the men were in the act of climbing this fence, the writer seeking a gap where his horse could pass, Adjutant McRae communicated to him General Hill's order to retire immediately; whereupon, anticipating that the enemy would reform and open with terrible effect at such short range as soon as the backward movement was perceived, the regiment was obliqued into the woods upon which its left flank rested, and, retiring thus under cover, came off without further damage.
Not so its gallant comrades, who, having advanced with but little loss, and just rectified their alignment behind the fence, were now in perfect line right under the enemy's guns. Their retreat was across a broad, open field; and as they faced about, the foe, quickly rallying and reforming, more than five of six times their number, hurled shot and shell through their devoted ranks with awful destruction. The retreat was the signal for slaughter, and, as Colonel McRae says, the regiment “was scarcely harmed at all till the retreat began” --the loss was desperate in a few moments afterwards. [Southern Historical Society Papers, August, 1879, page 362.] Before they recrossed that fearful field, the best blood of all the Old North State fed the fresh young wheat at their feet, and a hundred Carolina homes were cast into direful mourning and distress.
