A mist arising from the two rivers floated over everything, but Dick knew
that the battle was at hand. The Northern trumpets were calling, and in
the haze in front of them the Southern trumpets were calling, too.
The fog lifted, and then Dick saw the Confederate lines stretched through
forest, rock and ploughed ground. Near the front was a rail fence with
lines of skirmishers crouching behind it. As the last bit of mist rolled
away the fence became a twisted line of flame. The fire of the Southern
skirmishers crashed in the Union ranks, and the Northern skirmishers,
pressing in on the right replied with a fire equally swift and deadly.
Then came the roar of the Southern cannon, well aimed and tearing gaps in
the Union lines.
"Its time to charge!" exclaimed Pennington. "It scares me, standing
still under the enemy's fire, but I forget about it when I'm rushing
forward."
The Winchester regiment did not move for the present, although the battle
thickened and deepened about it. The fire of the Confederate cannon was
heavy and terrible, yet the Union masses on either wing had begun to
press forward.
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