A young captain, soiled, ragged, his sleeves hanging in ribbons, the whole skirt of his coat gone, moves alertly, composedly in the center, seizing a gun when one comes handy on the ground, where there are plenty scattered.

“Steady, men, steady!  We shall be at the water’s edge, soon, and then we can give them hell!”

Never music sounded sweeter in Jack’s car than that jaunty epithet “hell”!  How inspiring!  How little of the ordinary association the word brought up!  Now they were traversing slowly the very ground Jack and his comrades had flown over in the morning.  Still firing—­still working with all his heart in the deadly play, Jack sidles to the officer and cries out: 

“Captain, I know a ford that will take us across above the stone bridge.  We discovered it this morning.  Shall I guide that way?”

“Guide if you can; but fire like seven devils, above all!” the captain cried, seizing two or three pouches lying in a mass and emptying the cartridges into his pockets.

“There, keep to the left sharp, and we shall come to a deep gully where the water is only knee-deep,” Jack cries, also replenishing his cartridge-box, which had shrunk under the rapid work of the last half-hour.

“What regiment are you, sergeant?” the captain cries, looking for a moment at the tattered recruit.

“Caribees of New York, Sherman’s brigade.”

“And how came you off here?  Your brigade was near the right of the line at the stone budge.”  The captain asked this with a shade of suspicion in his voice.

Jack explained his mission, and the officer, who had been dealing out the timely windfall of ammunition, nodded.

“Poor Hunter was shot early in the advance.  It would have been victory to our flag if the poor old follow had been wounded before the action began.  He lost three hours in the attack, and gave the rebels a chance to come up from Winchester.”

Now Jack understood the mysterious legions that seemed to spring from the earth.  They were Johnston’s army from the Shenandoah.

“Keep up heart, men:  Burnside and Schenck are near us somewhere.  They are in reserve, and they’ll give these devils a warm welcome, if they push far enough after us.”

Then the steady volleys grew swifter, if that were possible, the enemy moving steadily after the slowly retiring group.  But now there is a clear field to cross, so wide that the smallness of the force must be detected.  The captain halts the line, takes his bearings, divides the little army into two bodies, orders one to move at a double-quick directly across the open; the rest are stretched out as skirmishers.  He retires with the first squad across the field, directing the skirmishers to hold the ground until they hear three musket-shots from the wood behind.  The rebels can now be seen closing in very near.  But the skirmish-line, spreading over a wider front, evidently perplexes them, and they halt.  The three shots are presently heard, then the skirmish-line flees in groups across the bare downs, the vociferating yells of the gray-coats fairly drowning the hideous clamor of the muskets.