"Attention, 200th Indiana," shouted Capt. McGillicuddy. "Dress on the colors. Fix bayonets."
"They'uns 's Injiannians," shouted the rebel Color-Sergeant, waving his flag defiantly. "Come on, you Hoosiers. We'uns 's Mississippians. Remember Buny Visty. Injiannians 's cowards."
"Shorty, le's have that 'ere flag," said Si.
"Le's," said Shorty, pushing around the ring that locked his bayonet on.
"Forward March Charge!" shouted Capt. McGillicuddy.
Of the mad whirl of an eternity of events in the next few minutes neither Si nor Shorty had anything but a delirious remembrance. They could only recollect the fierce rush of the lightning-like play of bayonet and gun-barrel in the storm-center around the rebel colors. Each after an instant's savage fencing had sent his bayonet home in his opponent's body. Si had sprung at and seized the rebel colors, only to fall, as he grasped them, from a bullet out of the revolver of a rebel Captain, whom Shorty instantly bayoneted, and fell himself from a blow across the head with a musket-barrel.
The man who struck him was bayoneted by Abel Waite, who was dancing around the edges of the melee like a malignant little fiend, prodding wherever he could get a chance at a rebel body. The Irishmen, yelling like demons, were using their guns like shilelahs, and crushing heads in every direction, while Wat Burnham had thrown his musket aside, and was rushing at everybody with his mighty fists.
At length the rebels fled, leaving the Indianians in possession of their colors and the hillside.