Down the field, in a line parallel to the woods, and a dozen rods in front of the wavering Federal line, galloped a gun-carriage horse, its harness flapping and flying about its flashing hoofs.
Astride the barebacked horse was a small and marvelous figure. The figure of a short and stocky boy, fiery red of hair, his powder-blacked face freckled, his little eyes glaring. He was clad in the obviously chopped-down uniform of an artilleryman.
On his back, suspended by a strap that was fastened around his neck, bounced and rattled an enormous drum. In the boy’s trouser waistband were stuck two drumsticks.
The lad was kicking vehemently with his heels at his horse’s stomach. But as he came midway adown the Federal line he jerked his mount to a halt, slid to earth and, in the same gesture, unslung his drum.
He had halted not twenty feet from Dad.
“Now, then,” shrilled the boy, his harsh young voice ringing out like a trumpet-call, “what’re you longlegged loafers waiting for? Hey? Charge, you chumps! Charge!”
He faced the woods. His drum rolled out a deafening tattoo.
“Battle Jimmie!” shouted someone in the ranks.
“Jimmie!” echoed Dad. “Jimmie! Oh, it’s my boy!”
“Charge!” shrilled Jimmie, his drum seconding the fiery command.