Dick and his friends suddenly became conscious that both on their right and left the thunder of battle was moving back upon the Union camp.  They realized now that they were only the segment of a circle extending forward practically within the Union lines, and that the combat was going against them.  The word was given to retreat, lest they be surrounded, and they fell back slowly disputing with desperation every foot of ground that they gave up.  Yet they left many fallen behind.  A fourth of the regiment had been killed or wounded already, and there were tears in the eyes of Colonel Winchester as he looked over the torn ranks of his gallant men.

Now the Southerners, meaning to drive victory home, were bringing up their reserves and pouring fresh troops upon the shattered Union front.  They would have swept everything away, but in the nick of time a fresh Union brigade arrived also, supported the yielding forces and threw itself upon the enemy.

But Grant had not yet come.  It seemed that in the beginning fortune played against this man of destiny, throwing all her tricks in favor of his opponents.  The single time that he was away the attack bad been made, and if he would win back a lost battle there was great need to hurry.

The Southern troops, exultant and full of fire and spirit, continually rolled back their adversaries.  They wheeled more guns from the fort into position and opened heavily on the yielding foe.  If they were beaten back at any time they always came on again, a restless wave, crested with fire and steel.

Dick’s regiment continued to give ground slowly.  It had no choice but to do so or be destroyed.  It seemed to him now that he beheld the wreck of all things.  Was this to be Bull Run over again?  His throat and eyes burned from the smoke and powder, and his face was black with grime.  His lips were like fire to the touch of each other.  He staggered in the smoke against some one and saw that it was Warner.

“Have we lost?” he cried.  “Have we lost after doing so much?”

The lips of the Vermonter parted in a kind of savage grin.

“I won’t say we’ve lost,” he shouted in reply, “but I can’t see anything we’ve won.”

Then he lost Warner in the smoke and the regiment retreated yet further.  It was impossible to preserve cohesion or keep a line formed.  The Southerners never ceased to press upon them with overwhelming weight.  Pillow, now decisive in action, continually accumulated new forces upon the Northern right.  Every position that McClernand had held at the opening of the battle was now taken, and the Confederate general was planning to surround and destroy the whole Union army.  Already he was sending messengers to the telegraph with news for Johnston of his complete victory.

But the last straw had not yet been laid upon the camel’s back.  McClernand was beaten, but the hardy men of Kentucky, East Tennessee and the northwest still offered desperate resistance.  Conspicuous among the defenders was the regiment of young pioneers from Nebraska, hunters, Indian fighters, boys of twenty or less, who had suffered already every form of hardship.  They stood undaunted amid the showers of bullets and shells and cried to the others to stand with them.