They were so near that everything was plainly visible, and the hum of conversation reached their ears.

They could even hear the commands of the officers vainly trying to restore order, the curses of the teamsters upon their jaded animals, the ribald songs of the few whose canteens furnished them with forgetfulness of defeat, and contempt for the surrounding misery.
All the flooding showers which had been falling upon hundreds of square miles of precipitous mountin sides were now gorging through the crooked, narrow throat of the Little Rockcastle.

The torrent filled the ragged banks to the brim, and in their greedy swirl undermined and tore from there logs, great trees, and even rocks.
This was the barrier that stayed the flight of the fugitive throng, and it was this that they strove to put between them and the presumed revengeful victors.
On the bank, field and line officers labored to calm their men and restore organization.

It was in vain that they pointed out that there had been no pursuit thus far, and the unlikelihood of there being one.
When did Panic yield to Reason?
In those demoralized ears the thunder of the cannon at Wildcat, the crash of the bursting shells, and the deadly whistle of bullets still rang louder than any words officers could speak.
The worst frightened crowded into the stream in a frenzy, and struggled wildly with the current that swept their feet off the slimy limestone bottom, with the logs and trees dashing along like so many catapult-bolts, and with the horses and teams urged on by men more fear-stricken still.

On the steep slope on the other side glimmered numbers of little fires where those who were lucky enough to get across were warming and drying themselves.
"Heavens!" said Harry with an anticipatory shudder, "if our men should come up, the first cannon shot would make half these men drown themselves in trying to get away." Fortner heeded him not.