The colonel’s aide ordered quiet, and the sounds died down to a restless hum as the men clasped their belts around their waists, grabbed their cartridge boxes and fixed their bayonets.
Tim walked among his boys. Most of the faces were chestnut brown from two years in the southern sun, but one face stood out white as chalk. Tim stopped to talk to Private Greene. As he faced the boy he thought, He’s just as I probably was two years ago.
“Just keep moving,” Tim said in a quiet voice. “It’s dangerous to falter.”
They moved forward, keeping their line as straight as they could in the dark. Just as Tim fancied he could pick out the shape of the fort against the sky a Yankee picket stood in their path, raising his hand in silent greeting. The order came to halt and rest.
In the still, gray hours General Strong, with a yellow bandanna fluttering at his neck, mounted on a big, stamping horse, moved along the line. He paused near Sergeant Fitch and looked down at the men. “Don’t stop to fire. Trust in God and give them the bayonet.” Then he spurred his horse, and the man and the massive haunches of his charger and the beast’s switching, whipping tail were swallowed by the gloom.
Tim noticed that Private Greene stood close.
“We move with caution till the enemy pickets open fire,” Tim said. “Then we go in double quick. The Maine and Pennsylvania boys will come in right behind.”
The sand gave way with every step, and a lump of impatience grew in Tim’s chest.
As the soldiers advanced the ones on the right flank fell back so that they wouldn’t be forced to walk in the ocean.
A Rebel picket sent up an earsplitting yell, there was a warning rifle shot, and the order came for the Yankees to charge. As Wagner’s batteries opened fire the ground in front of the advancing soldiers was churned by a stream of shot and shell.