ved at--what do you call it? perennial youth." Now he and Little
Sorrel stood upon the flowering hilltop, and his lips moved. "Old Jack's
praying--Old Jack's praying!" thought the courier.

Fitz Lee said something, but the general did not attend. In another
moment, however, he spoke curt, decisive, final. He spoke to the
courier. "Tell General Rodes to move _across_ the Plank road. He is to
halt at the turnpike. I will join him there. Move quietly."

The courier turned and went. Stonewall Jackson regarded again the scene
before him--abattis and breastworks and rifle-pits untenanted, guns
lonely in the slanting sunlight, lines of stacked arms, tents,
fluttering flags, the horses straying at their will, cropping the tender
grass, in a corner of a field men butchering beeves--regarded the German
regiments, Schimmelpfennig and Krzyzancerski, regarded New York and
Wisconsin, camped about the Wilderness church. Up from the clearing,
across to the thick forest, floated an indescribable humming sound, a
confused droning as from a giant race of bees. The shadows of the trees
were growing long, the sun hung just above the pines of the Wilderness.
"Good! good!" said Stonewall Jackson. His eyes, beneath the old, old
forage cap, had a sapphire depth and gleam. A colour was in his cheek.
"Good! good!" he said, and jerked his hand into the air. Suddenly
turning Little Sorrel, he left the hill--riding fast, elbows out, and
big feet, down into the woods, his sabre leaping as he rode.

CHAPTER XLVIII

THE RIVER

It yet lacked of six o'clock when the battle lines were finally formed.
Only the treetops of the Wilderness now were in gold, below, in the
thick wood, the brigades stood in shadow. In front were Rodes's
skirmishers, and Rodes's brigades formed the first line. The troops of
Raleigh Colston made the second line, A. P. Hill's men the third. A
battery--four Napoleons--were advanced; the other guns were coming up.
The cavalry, with Stonewall Brigade supporting, took the Plank road,
masking the actual movement. On the old turnpike Stonewall Jackson sat
his horse beside Rodes. At six o'clock he looked at his watch, closed
it, and put it in his pocket. "Are you ready, General Rodes?"

"Yes, sir."

"You can go forward, sir."

High over the darkening Wilderness rang a bugle-call. The sound soared,
hung a moment poised, then, far and near, thronged the grey echoes,
bugles, bugles, calling, calling! The sound passed away; t