Four times with his regiment in Hooker’s corps Dad led his men against the Confederate center. Four times the murderous volleys of the Southerners sent back the assailants, almost cut to pieces.
Once more, Battle Jimmie far to the fore, clanging on his deafening drum, the regiment charged with its brigade.
Half-way up the slope, Dad found himself senior officer, not only of his regiment, but of his brigade.
Battles make field-promotion very swift.
Bare-headed, sword in hand, Dad toiled upward, calling to his fast-thinning ranks to close up and follow. At his side drummed Jimmie, crazy with excitement; screaming mingled insults, praise and encouragement to the survivors.
Like some gaunt old war spirit, Dad raged at the head of his men; a cyclone of lead roaring and whistling around him. His example, and that of the howling, drumming boy at his side, proved infectious.
With a gasping cheer the depleted ranks staggered forward in the wake of the gray-haired man and the drummer. Against the Confederate batteries they crashed, headlong.
There was a mêlée of hand-to-hand fighting for an instant; then a break and a scrambling run on the part of the defenders.
And the hill was won.
Dad whirled about on the handful of blue-coated victors who clustered around him, yelling ecstatically.