om abattis of bough and log, from the shadow of that bluff
head with its earthworks one above the other, from the scorching flame
of twenty batteries and the wild singing of the minies, rushed the South
Carolina troops. The brigadier--Maxey Gregg--the regimental, the company
officers, with shouts, with appeals, with waved swords, strove to stop
the rout. The command rallied, then broke again. Hell was in the wood,
and the men's faces were grey and drawn. "We must rally those troops!"
said Lee, and galloped forward. He came into the midst of the disordered
throng. "Men, men! Remember your State--Do your duty!" They recognized
him, rallied, formed on the colours, swept past him with a cheer and
reentered the deep and fatal wood.

The battery in front of Allan began to suffer dreadfully. The horses
grew infected with the terror of the plain. They jerked their heads
back; they neighed mournfully; some left the grass and began to gallop
aimlessly across the field. The shells came in a stream, great, hurtling
missiles. Where they struck flesh or ploughed into the earth, it was
with a deadened sound; when they burst in air, it was like crackling
thunder. The blue sky was gone. A battle pall wrapped the thousands and
thousands of men, the guns, the horses, forest, swamp, creeks, old
fields; the great strength of the Federal position, the grey brigades
dashing against it, hurled back like Atlantic combers. It should be
about three o'clock, Allan thought, but he did not know. Every nerve was
tingling, the blood pounding in his veins. Time and space behaved like
waves charged with strange driftwood. He felt a mad excitement, was sure
that if he stood upright or tried to walk he would stagger. An order ran
down the line of the brigade he had adopted. _Attention!_

[Illustration: THE BATTLE]

He found himself on his feet and in line, steady, clear of head as
though he trod the path by Thunder Run. _Forward! March!_ The brigade
cleared the wood, and in line of battle passed the exhausted battery.
Allan noted a soldier beneath a horse, a contorted, purple, frozen face
held between the brute's fore-legs. The air was filled with whistling
shells; the broom sedge was on fire. _Right shoulder. Shift Arms!
Charge!_

Somewhere, about halfway over the plain, he became convinced that his
right leg from the hip down was gone to sleep. He had an idea that he
was not keeping up. A line passed him--another; he mustn't let the
others get ahead