“Bravo! Good boy, Tom,” said old Hapgood, who seemed to be as much at ease as when he had counselled patience and resignation in the quiet of the tent. “Don’t fire too high, Tom.”
“I’ve got the idea,” replied the soldier boy. “I begin to feel quite at home.”
“O, you’ll do; and I knew you would from the first.”
The shouts of victory which had sounded over the field were full of inspiration to the men; but at the moment when the laurels seemed to be resting securely upon our banners, the rebel line moved forward with irresistible fury. Tom, at one instant, as he cast his eye along the line, found himself flanked on either side by his comrades; at the next there was a wild, indescribable tramp and roar, and he found himself alone. The regiment was scattered in every direction, and he did not see a single man whom he knew. There was a moving mass of Federal soldiers all around him. The Zouaves had been forced back, and the cry of victory had given place to the ominous sounds which betokened a defeat, if not a rout.
The rebels had been reënforced, and had hurled their fresh legions upon our exhausted troops, who could no longer roll back the masses that crowded upon them. The day was lost.
Tom, bewildered by this sudden and disastrous result, moved back with the crowds around him. Men had ceased to be brave and firm; they were fleeing in mortal terror before the victorious battalions that surged against them.
“It’s all up with us, my lad,” said a panting Zouave. “Run for your life. Come along with me.”
Tom followed the Zouave towards the woods, the storm of bullets still raining destruction around them.