Yet the condition of the Union army steadily grew worse.  Dick himself, in all the smoke and shouting and confusion, could see it.  The regiments that formed the core of resistance were being pared down continually.  There was a steady dribble of fugitives to the rear, and those who fought felt themselves going back always, like one who slips on ice.

The sun, far up the heavens, now poured down beams upon the vast cloud of smoke and vapor in which the two armies fought.  The few people left in Dover, red hot for the South, cheered madly as they saw their enemy driven further and further away.

Grant, the man of destiny, ill clad and insignificant in appearance, now came upon the field and saw his beaten army.  But the bulldog in him shut down its teeth and resolved to replace defeat with victory.  His greatest qualities, strength and courage in the face of disaster, were now about to shine forth.  His countenance showed no alarm.  He rode among the men cheering them to renewed efforts.  He strengthened the weak places in the line that his keen eyes saw.  He infused a new spirit into the army.  His own iron temper took possession of the troops, and that core of resistance, desperate when he came, suddenly hardened and enlarged.

Dick felt the change.  It was of the mind, but it was like a cool breath upon the face.  It was as if the winds had begun to blow courage.  A great shout rolled along the Northern line.

“Grant has come!” exclaimed Pennington, who was bleeding from a slight wound in the shoulder, but who was unconscious of it.  “And we’ve quit retreating!”

The Nebraska youth had divined the truth.  Just when a complete Southern victory seemed to be certain the reversal of fortune came.  The coolness, the courage, and the comprehensive eye of Grant restored the battle for the North.  The Southern reserves had not charged with the fire and spirit expected, and, met with a shattering fire by the Indiana troops, they fell back.  Grant saw the opportunity, and massing every available regiment, he hurled it upon Pillow and the Southern center.

Dick felt the wild thrill of exultation as they went forward instead of going back, as they had done for so many hours.  Just in front of him was Colonel Winchester, waving aloft a sword, the blade of which had been broken in two by a bullet, and calling to his men to come on.  Warner and Pennington, grimed with smoke and mud and stained here and there with blood, were near also, shouting wildly.

The smoke split asunder for a moment, and Dick saw the long line of charging troops.  It seemed to be a new army now, infused with fresh spirit and courage, and every pulse in the boy’s body began to beat heavily with the hope of victory.  The smoke closed in again and then came the shock.

Exhausted by their long efforts which had brought victory so near the Southern troops gave way.  Their whole center was driven in, and they lost foot by foot the ground that they had gained with so much courage and blood.  Grant saw his success and he pressed more troops upon his weakening enemy.  The batteries were pushed forward and raked the shattered Southern lines.