The Reserves moved forward with a hearty, cheerful zeal; and presently the thunder of their artillery, and the rattling volleys of musketry, proclaimed the commencement of the conflict. A portion of Stonewall Jackson’s command was before them—men who always fought with the energy of desperation. They were a worthy foe, and worthily were they met; but the rebels had the advantage. Their renowned leader had chosen their position, and the brave Pennsylvanians suffered terribly.
“Fighting Joe,” on his white charger, rode up to the position in the front of the battle. He was calm and unmoved in the shower of bullets, and the troops were gladdened and encouraged by his presence. They were strong without him; they were stronger with him. He gave off his orders with the utmost coolness, and spoke words of fire, which burned in the souls of the men. He was there,—the idol of the army,—and there was not a man who would not have been ashamed to skulk with this noble example before him. The mighty will of the general was communicated to the nerves and the muscles of his soldiers, and he multiplied himself thousands of times in the persons of his devoted followers.
Still they moved on, Meade’s division, supported by that of Ricketts, nearer to the woods where the rebels were concentrated; and still they poured in the deadly volleys, until the resistance before them was sensibly diminished.
“Forward!” was the word that rang along the line; and the Reserves, supported by two of Ricketts’s brigades, rushed on with cheers, and entered the oak grove. The rebels were falling back before them, and they rushed through the woods, across the open field on the other side, and still onward to the woods beyond the field. But here they were thrown upon bodies of fresh troops, hurried up to meet them. From the dark shadows of the wood came showers of bullets from a sheet of flaming fire. The grove was packed with rebels; the Reserves seemed to melt away like frost before the sunlight, in that galling fire. They closed up their shattered lines, and fell doggedly back, pouring in volley after volley upon the dense masses.
The fortunes of the day seemed suddenly to have been reversed; what had been victory a moment before, now became defeat. Stonewall Jackson’s entire line was advancing with those fiendish yells which distinguish the rebel onslaught. It was a critical moment in the fortunes of the day; but the genius of the man who held the reins in his hands was equal to the occasion. He was not a mile in the rear; he was in the front, where he could see the indications of threatening disaster; where he could promptly meet and counteract the elements of defeat which had begun to manifest themselves.
“Captain Somers,” said he, in his calm but earnest tones.
Somers spurred forward his horse, and saluting the general, stood in readiness for his commands.
“Tell General Ricketts to send me his best brigade instantly.”
It rained shot and shell on the hill-side as Somers dashed away to execute the order. Presently the “best brigade,” consisting of the twelfth and thirteenth Massachusetts, the ninth New York, and the eleventh Pennsylvania, under the command of General Hartsuff, double-quicked down the hill, amid the falling shot and bursting shell, which crashed fearfully through the trees, and tore up the earth in their mad flight. They were veteran troops, commanded by a veteran soldier of skill and bravery. They passed the general on their march, and his eye lighted up with satisfaction as he saw the spirit which they manifested.
“I think they will hold the ground,” said he, as General Hartsuff, passing the shattered lines of the Reserves, drew up his brigade on the summit of a hill between them and the exultant foe.