z
Hugh.

"Go!" ordered Waldron, imperiously. "Time is precious."

Fitz Hugh dashed down the slope to the right at a gallop. The brigade
commander turned tranquilly, and followed the march of his _echelon_.
The second and decisive crisis of the little battle was approaching,
and to understand it we must glance at the ground on which it was to be
fought. Two hostile lines were marching toward each other along the
broad, gently rounded crest of the hill and at right angles to its
general course. Between these lines, but much the nearest to the Union
troops, a spacious road came up out of the forest in front, crossed the
ridge, swept down the smooth decline in rear, and led to a single
wooden bridge over a narrow but deep rivulet. On either hand the road
was hedged in by a close board fence, four feet or so in height. It was
for the possession of this highway that the approaching lines were
about to shed their blood. If the Confederates failed to win it all
their artillery would be lost, and their army captured or dispersed.

The two parties came on without firing. The soldiers on both sides were
veterans, cool, obedient to orders, intelligent through long service,
and able to reserve all their resources for a short-range and final
struggle. Moreover, the fences as yet partially hid them from each
other, and would have rendered all aim for the present vague and
uncertain.

"Forward, Fifth!" shouted Waldron. "Steady. Reserve your fire." Then,
as the regiment came up to the fence, he added, "Halt; right dress.
Steady, men."

Meantime he watched the advancing array with an eager gaze. It was a
noble sight, full of moral sublimity, and worthy of all admiration. The
long, lean, sunburned, weather-beaten soldiers in ragged gray stepped
forward, superbly, their ranks loose, but swift and firm, the men
leaning forward in their haste, their tattered slouch hats pushed
backward, their whole aspect business-like and virile. Their line was
three battalions strong, far outflanking the Fifth, and at least equal
to the entire _echelon_. When within thirty or forty yards of the
further fence they increased their pace to nearly a double-quick, many
of them stooping low in hunter fashion, and a few firing. Then Waldron
rose in his stirrups and yelled, "Battalion! ready--aim--aim low.
Fire!"

There was a stunning roar of three hundred and fifty rifles, and a
deadly screech of bullets. But the smoke rolled out, the haste to
reload was