Fully twelve hundred yards of open country lay between the wood-edge and the Federal line.
To charge a seen foe is one thing; to attack an invisible enemy who is ensconced in unknown numbers behind a screen of leaves is quite another. And this the advancing line promptly realized.
The order to charge was given. Across the field of fresh-cut rye-stubble started the Federals.
(A charge, in a picture-book, is an inspiring sight. In real life it consists of various blocks and lines and other formations of uniformed pawns moving awkwardly and with exasperating slowness, all in one direction, athwart the vast checker-board. A retreat is far more picturesque and less geometrical.)
Advancing by order, in close alignment, the blue-clad men offered a mark not to be missed. A nearsighted child in the thick wood-fringe could scarce have failed to wreak vengeance in their ranks.
The whole edge of the forest was white now with belching smoke from which spat jets of yellow and red fire. Solid shot, grape and rifle-fire tore grotesque gaps in the oncoming ranks.
With no opportunity to avenge their losses or even to see their slayers, the Federals plunged onward.
First at the double they moved, their officers trotting, sword in hand, at the side of the companies, barking sharp commands and closing as well as might be each new and ugly rent in the lines. Then the orderly, rhythmic run grew shambling.
One man in a regiment’s front rank wheeled and tried to bolt back—anywhere out of reach of the whizzing, crashing, viewless death that was striking down his companions at every step.
A lieutenant struck the coward across the face with the flat of his sword and howled curses at him, striving to beat him back to his duty.