CHAPTER FOUR
It was dark when Tim opened his eyes, and for a moment he couldn’t remember where he was. Then a passing horseman, giving orders, reminded him of their position. Tim was conscious of the silent lines of men stretching away to the rear, and he knew that sentries in the unseen fort waited quietly in the darkness, straining their eyes toward the Yankee pickets, wondering when the attack would come. Fear came to him, then ebbed away. He knew that the hours ahead must be lived a minute at a time. He got to his feet.
Muffled voices sounded on the left and Sergeant Fitch came out of the gloom. “General Strong and Colonel Rodman are up and about.”
“Did you get some sleep?”
“Not much. But most of the boys are dead to the world.”
“Fitch, do you think the men are fit?”
“Fit enough, I guess. But that new lad Greene, he worries me. He’s so confounded young.”
The colonel came along the line. “Turn the boys out. We have a job on hand. We must have silence as we move to our picket line.”
In the ghostly light the voices of the sergeants brought the boys to life. Fitch’s voice came in a pleasant rumble. “Here, Steele, time to get up. Up now, Bailey. Come along, Campana. That’s it, Greene. Time to rise, lad, we have a job to do.”
And from farther away came other voices. “On your feet, grab your rifles, put on your boots.”