CHAPTER XVII
“BATTLE JIMMIE”
THERE is a baffling yet no less true psychological element in man which, after he has come to the uttermost limit of his powers, enables him to keep on past all seemingly possible bounds.
The Federal line, that had sagged and wavered and was on the brink of retreat, forgot momentarily its panic impulse; forgot the flying death that bit deep into its very vitals; forgot all save the fact that an absurd-looking little boy was advancing—fearlessly, gayly—where they, grown men, had faltered and feared to go.
The mad roll of the drum, the treble shout of “Charge!” the spectacle of a youngster berating middle-aged veterans as though they were bad nursery children—all this infected the line with a queer, half-hysterical impetus.
Someone laughed aloud. The laugh ran along the ranks in every cadence of surprised mirth. Dad and a score of other officers caught up the word “Charge!”
Irregularly, in shockingly bad formation, staggering like drunkards—yet staggering forward—the men got into motion.
Now they were on the run, a laughing, swearing, wholly unafraid mob.
Following close behind the boy they made for the forest death-trap—the trap they no longer feared.
Fast as they ran, two figures were ever in advance of them: Major James Dadd, and, close at his side, “Battle Jimmie.”