It was
always Henry Ware who was first to see a new movement, his eyes read
every new motion in the grass, and foliage swaying in a new direction
would always tell him what it meant. More than one of his comrades
muttered to himself that he was worth a dozen men that day.
So fierce were the combatants, so eager were they for each other's blood
that they did not notice that the sky, gray in the morning, then blue at
the opening of battle, had now grown leaden and somber again. The leaves
above them were motionless and then began to rustle dully in a raw wet
wind out of the north. The sun was quite gone behind the clouds and
drops of cold rain began to fall, falling on the upturned faces of the
dead, red and white alike with just impartiality, the wind rose,
whistled, and drove the cold drops before it like hail. But the combat
still swayed back and forth in the leaden forest, and neither side took
notice.
Mr. Ware remained near the center of the white line, and retained
command, although he gave but few orders, every man fighting for himself
and giving his own orders. But from time to time Ross and Sol or Henry
brought him news of the conflict, perhaps how they had been driven back
a little at one point, and perhaps how they gained a little at another
point.
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