But other actors arrive upon the ground,—the men who tossed their knapsacks into the woods at Williamsburg,—who became a wall of adamant on that memorable field. Berry and Jameson march up the Williamsburg road and move out upon the left of the line forming behind the Tenth Massachusetts. Berry pushes down into the border of the swamp; Jameson sends one regiment to Peck and one to Birney, and moves straight on towards the abattis of fallen trees in front of Couch's line along the Williamsburg road with his two remaining regiments. His men lie down behind the fallen trees and pour their volleys into the advancing foe, moving on in stately grandeur. Jameson, unmindful of the storm around him, rides up and down the line, exposed to the fire of the enemy, not a hundred yards distant. Sheltered by the abattis, his two regiments are immovable. Like a hillock in the path of an avalanche, they turn the overwhelming force aside. It flows round them, right and left, but does not advance along the road.
Berry, far down in the woods towards White Oak Swamp, is pouring a terrible fire upon the masses, who still press toward Seven Pines. He holds them in check, repulsing all the assaults. There, in the thickest of the fight, is that young officer who made his last will and testament at Yorktown,—the "hero of the day" at Williamsburg,—animating the troops by his fearless daring, and there he gives his life to his country, shot through the brain.
In the rear of Seven Pines is the hospital, full of weak and sickly men, prostrated by fevers. They hear the tide of battle rolling nearer hour by hour. A soldier from the front says that the line is giving way and the Rebels are sweeping all before them. The words fall on the ears of Lieutenant Rice, of the Eleventh Maine. He springs to his feet, and grasps a gun. "All of you who can hold up your heads, follow me!" he shouts.[26] Men who have not been able to stand upon their feet spring up at the word. They are pale, sallow, emaciated, with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. They form in line, twenty of them, seize their muskets. The fever is consuming them, but there is a warmer flame within their breasts,—the unquenchable desire to save their comrades from defeat and their country from destruction. Lieutenant Rice leads the weak and tottering party to the front. He moves on close to the enemy. He is one of the best marksmen of his regiment, and soldier after soldier falls from the ranks of the enemy by his unerring aim. He fires seven times, and then goes down before the bullets of the foe.
There is Willie Parker of the Eleventh Maine, a mere boy, who beholds the Rebel colors advancing from the woods, borne by a stalwart soldier.
"That flag must come down!" he says, as he raises his gun. There is a flash, a screaming in the air, as the swiftly-whirling bullet passes on. The color-bearer reels, staggers, and falls.
There is Sergeant Katon, the standard-bearer of the Eleventh, holding up, as high as he can reach, the broken flag-staff, while kneeling beside the dead body of Corporal Maddocks, who has fallen while guarding the torn and tattered but precious standard,—all this while the tempest surges around them, over them, through them; the very blast of death!
An officer with one hundred men, who has been out on picket, comes up the road.
"Where is my regiment?" he asks of the grim and veteran Heintzelman.
"I cannot tell you, sir."