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 intense, and none could mark what execution was done.
Whatever the Confederates may have suffered, they bore up under the
volley, and they came on. In another minute each of those fences, not
more than twenty-five yards apart, was lined by the shattered fragment
of a regiment, each firing as fast as possible into the face of the
other. The Fifth bled fearfully: it had five of its ten company
commanders shot dead in three minutes; and its loss in other officers
and in men fell scarcely short of this terrible ratio. On its left the
Seventh and the Tenth were up, pouring in musketry, and receiving it
in a fashion hardly less sanguinary. No one present had ever seen, or
ever afterward saw, such another close and deadly contest.

But the strangest thing in this whole wonderful fight was the conduct
of the brigade commander. Up and down the rear of the lacerated Fifth
Waldron rode thrice, spurring his plunging and wounded horse close to
the yelling and fighting file-closers, and shouting in a piercing
voice encouragement to his men. Stranger still, considering the
character which he had borne in the army, and considering the evil
deed for which he was to account on the morrow, were the words which
he was distinctly and repeatedly heard to utter. "Stand steady,
men--God is with us!" was the extraordinary battle-cry of this
backslidden clergyman, this sinner above many.

And it was a prophecy of victory. Bradley ran up his Napoleons on the
right in the nick of time, and, although only one of them could be
brought to bear, it was enough; the grape raked the Confederate left,
broke it, and the battle was over. In five minutes more their whole
array wa