“Colour—­bearer—­
twelve—­paces—­to the front—­MARCH! Bat-tal-ion—­pre-sent—­ARMS!”

Then, with drawn sword, the colonel also salutes the flag—­and cries, DIES BY IT!

A mortal cold goes to the marrow of my bones; my comrades’ faces are white as death.

“Bat-tal-ion—­fix—­BAYONETS!

“For-ward—­guide centre—­MARCH!”

Slowly we move up the hill; the line sways in curves; we halt and re-form.

We lie down near the crest; shells burst over us; shells fly with, a dreadful hissing beyond us.  I raise my head; right-oblique is a battery; ... it is hidden in smoke; again I see the guns and the horses and the men; they load and fire, load and fire.

A round shot strikes the ground in our front ... rises ... falls ... rises—­goes over.  We fire at the smoke.

Down flat on your face!  Do you hear the singing in the air?  Thop!  Johnson is hit; he runs to the rear, bending over until his height is lost.

And now a roar like that of a waterfall; I look again ... the battery has disappeared ... but the smoke rises and I see a long line of men come out of the far-off woods and burst upon the guns.  The men of the battery flee, and the rebels swarm among the captured pieces.

Now there are no more hissing shells or bullets singing.  We rise and look,—­to our right a regiment is marching forward ... no music, no drum ... marching forward, flag in the centre ... colonel behind the centre, dismounted,—­the men march on; quick time, right-shoulder-shift; the fleeing cannoneers find safety behind the regiment always marching on.  The rebels at the battery are not in line; some try to drag away the guns; swords flash in the hot sun; ... the rebels re-form; ... they lie down; ... and now the regiment is at double-quick with trailed arms; ... the rebel line rises and delivers its fire.

The smoke swallows everything.

* * * * *

Again I see.  The rebel line has melted away.  Our own men hold the battery.  They try to turn the guns once more on the fleeing rebels; and now a rebel battery far to the left works fast upon the regiment in disorder.  A fresh rebel line comes from the woods and rushes for the battery with the sound of many voices.  Our men give way ... they run—­the officers are frantic; all run, all run ... and the cavalry ride from, the woods, and ride straight through our flying men and strike ... and many of the fugitives fire upon the horsemen, who in turn flee for their lives.

* * * * *

It is long past noon; the sun is a huge red shield; the world is smoke.  Another regiment has gone in; the roar of battle grows; crowds of wounded go by; a battery gallops headlong to the rear ... the men madly lash the horses.

“Bat-tal-ion—­ATTENTION!”

Our time is upon us; the Eleventh, stands and forms.