Till Hancock and Howard are beaten away at last, Outnumbered and outflanked, clean out of the town, Retreating as best they can to a fish-hook ridge, And the clamor dies and the sun is going down And the tired men think about food. The dust-bitten staff Of Ewell, riding along through the captured streets, Hear the thud of a bullet striking their general. Flesh or bone? Death-wound or rub of the game? “The general’s hurt!” They gasp and volley their questions. Ewell turns his head like a bird, “No, I’m not hurt, sir, But, supposing the ball had struck you, General Gordon, We’d have the trouble of carrying you from the field. You can see how much better fixed for a fight I am. It don’t hurt a mite to be shot in your wooden leg.”

So it ends. Lee comes on the field in time to see The village taken, the Union wave in retreat. Meade will not reach the ground till one the next morning.