"Deal me a winning hand!" John shouted.
A shot cut the sword belt of the first lieutenant, left him uninjured, glanced and killed the captain. The lieutenant picked up his sword, took his captain's place and led the charge.
Men were falling on the right and left and John Vaughan loaded and fired with steady, dogged nerve without a scratch.
Four times the blue billows had dashed against the hills only to fall back in red confusion. The din and roar were indescribable. The color-bearer of the regiment confused by conflicting orders paused and asked for instructions. The Colonel, mistaking his act for retreat, tore the colors from his hand and gave them to another man. The boy burst into tears. The new color-bearer had scarcely lifted the flag above his head when he fell. The disgraced soldier snatched the tottering flagstaff and, lifting it on high, dashed up the hill ahead of his line of battle.
The men were ducking their heads low beneath the fierce hail of lead and staggering blindly.
John saw this boy waving his flag and shaking his fist back at the halting line. He was not a hundred feet from the Confederate trenches.
"Come on there!" he shouted. "Damn it, what's the matter with you?"
Ned Vaughan and his grey men behind the little mound of red dirt were watching this drama with flashing eyes. Beside him crouched a boy whose early piety had marked him for the ministry. But he had wandered from the fold in the stress of army life. Ned heard his voice now in low, eager prayer:
"O Lord, drive 'em back! Drive 'em back, O Lord!"
He fired his musket down the hill and prayed harder: