“Forward and into the ranks at once, or I shoot!”
“But we are lame, sir!” cried one of the men. “See my foot is bleeding!”
He held up one foot and red drops were falling from the ragged shoe.
“It makes no difference,” cried Harry. “Barefooted men should be glad to march for Stonewall Jackson! One, two, three! Hurry, all of you, or I shoot!”
The men took one look at the flaming face, and broke into a run for the rear guard. Harry saw them in the ranks and then beat up the woods on either side of the road, but saw no more stragglers or deserters. Then he galloped through the edge of the forest and rejoined the general at the head of the command.
“Were they all marching?” asked Jackson.
“All but four, sir.”
“And the four?”
“They're marching now, too.”
“Good. How far are we from the arsenal?”