Near sundown the firing was conspicuously heavy, especially the artillery.  The men of most of the companies evinced a desire to frequently rest, and in every way delay our march as much as possible.  Some of the officers, too, joined with the men and offered objections to rushing headlong into battle without orders.  I knew that our brigade was somewhere in our front, and from the firing I was thoroughly convinced a battle was imminent, and in that case our duty called us to our command.  Not through any cowardice, however, did the men hesitate, for all this fiction written about men’s eagerness for battle, their ungovernable desire to throw themselves upon the enemy, their great love of hearing the bursting of shells over their heads, the whizzing of minnie balls through their ranks is all very well for romance and on paper, but a soldier left free to himself, unless he seeks notoriety or honors, will not often rush voluntarily into battle, and if he can escape it honorably, he will do it nine times out of ten.  There are times, however, when officers, whose keen sense of duty and honorable appreciation of the position they occupy, will lead their commands into battle unauthorized, when they see the necessity, but a private who owes no obedience nor allegiance only to his superiors, and has no responsibility, seldom ever goes voluntarily into battle; if so, once is enough.

Under these circumstances, as the sun was near setting, we learned from some wounded soldier that Kershaw was moving in line of battle to the left of the plank road.  Another Captain and myself deserted our companions and made our way to our regiments with our companies.  As we came upon it, it was just moving out from a thicket into an open field under a heavy skirmish fire and a fierce fire from a battery in our front.  We marched at a double-quick to rejoin the regiment, and the proudest moments of my life, and the sweetest words to hear, was as the other portion of the regiment saw us coming they gave a cheer of welcome and shouted, “Hurrah! for the Dutch; the Dutch has come; make way to the left for the Dutch,” and such terms of gladness and welcome, that I thought, even while the “Dutch” and its youthful commander were but a mere speck of the great army, still some had missed us, and I was glad to feel the touch of their elbow on the right and left when a battle was in progress.

Companies in the army, like school boys, almost all have “nick-names.”  Mine was called the “Dutch” from the fact of its having been raised in that section of the country between Saluda River and the Broad, known as “Dutch Fork.”  A century or more before, this country, just above Columbia and in the fork of the two rivers, was settled by German refugees, hence the name “Dutch Fork.”