raised the cry and it was caught up and hurried along like all omens of ill luck, that “the cavalry is surrounding us.”  In a moment our whole line was in one wild confusion, like “pandemonium broke loose.”  If it was a rout in the morning, it was a stampede now.  None halted to listen to orders or commands.  Like a monster wave struck by the head land, it rolls back, carrying everything before it by its own force and power, or drawing all within its wake.  Our battle line is forced from the stone fence.  We passed over one small elevation, down through a vale, and when half way up the next incline, Adjutant Pope, who was upon the staff of our brigade commander, met the fleeing troops and made a masterly effort to stem the tide by getting some of the troops in line.  Around him was formed a nucleus, and the line began to lengthen on either side, until we had a very fair battle line when the enemy reached the brow of the hill we had just passed.  We met them with a stunning volley, that caused the line to reel and stagger back over the crest.  Our lines were growing stronger each moment.  Pope was bending all his energies to make Kershaw’s Brigade solid, and was in a fair way to succeed.  The troops that had passed, seeing a stand being made, returned, and kept up the fire.  It was now hoped that the other portion of the line would act likewise and come to our assistance, and we further knew that each moment we delayed the enemy would allow that much time for our wagon train and artillery to escape.  But just as all felt that we were holding our own, Adjutant Pope fell, badly wounded by a minnie ball through the eye, which caused him to leave the field.  Then seeing no prospects of succor on our right or left, the enemy gradually passing and getting in our rear, the last great wave rolls away, the men break and fly, every man for himself, without officers or orders—­they scatter to the rear.  The enemy kept close to our heels, just as we were rising one hill their batteries would be placed on the one behind, then grape and cannister would sweep the field.  There were no thickets, no ravines, no fences to shield or protect us.  Everything seemed to have been swept from off the face of the earth, with the exception of a lone farm house here and there.  Every man appeared to be making for the stone bridge that spanned the creek at Strausburg.  But for the bold, manly stand made by Y.J.  Pope, with a portion of Kershaw’s Brigade (the brigade commander was seldom seen during the day), the entire wagon train and hundreds more of our troops would have been lost, for at that distance we could hear wagons, cannons, and caissons crossing the stone bridge at a mad gallop.  But in the rush some wagons interlocked and were overturned midway the bridge, and completely blocked the only crossing for miles above and below.  Teamsters and wagoners leave their charge and rush to the rear.  In the small space of one or two hundred yards stood deserted ambulances, wagons, and packs of artillery mules and