And what is true of two men is true of two hundred or of two thousand or of any larger number of men.
The Federal line crashed down upon the slow-moving Confederates, smashed their ranks and tore through them with scarce a halt. The Confederates, reeling from the collision, were sent in every direction, with no earthly chance to reform or to battle against the resistless onrush.
The trap, so well planned and so badly sprung, was no longer a trap. For the proposed victims had torn their way out of it ere its proposed iron jaws could close relentlessly upon them.
Straight on moved the Federals; slowly as they neared the hillfoot, to keep their whole depth intact and guard their baggage and heavy guns. But by this time the Confederates on either side of the advancing column were scattered beyond rallying.
And the Confederate center, which had given back before the rush, was running for shelter toward a group of rambling houses that made up a creek-side village a half-mile behind and a bit to the left of the routed lines of gray.
“Straight on,” advised Dad, “closing your formation. Three hours’ march should put us in touch with the main body of the Army of the Potomac. Leave a couple of regiments to make a demonstration against that village, so that the rest can get well out of reach without fear of a flank attack. Then when we have moved past, let them retreat and join us.”
The corps commander, with just sense enough left not to tamper with his own unbelievable good luck, issued orders accordingly, leaving Dad behind as his staff representative with the two regiments and the mountain battery detailed to hold the village’s defenders in play.
Jimmie, the fun being over, found his way back to his grandfather’s side, a very tired, very happy, very flushed little hero.
Dad gripped both the perspiring and weary hands in silent gratitude for the lad’s safety.
Then, as he was not on active duty for the moment, he drew aside under a big tree out of the line of fire, sat down, and lighted his pipe.