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"Point against point rebellious, arm 'gainst arm."--Shakespeare.

In the afternoon we broke camp and marched toward the west. It was July 16, 1861.

The bands were playing "Carry me back to old Virginia."

I was in the Eleventh. Orders had been read, but little could be understood by men in the ranks. Nothing was clear to me, in these orders, except two things:--

First, to be surprised would be unpardonable.

Second, to fall back would be unpardonable.

* * *

It was four o'clock. The road was ankle-deep in dust; the sun burnt our faces as we marched toward the west. Up hill and down hill, up hill and down hill, we marched for an hour, west and southwest.

We halted; from each company men were detailed to fill canteens. The city could no longer he seen.

Willis pointed to the north. Willis was a big, red-haired sergeant--a favourite with the men.

I looked, and saw clouds of dust rising a mile or two away.

"Miles's division," says Willis.

"What is on our left?"

"Nothing," says Willis.

"How do you know?"

"We are the left," says Willis.

The sergeant had studied war a little; he had some infallible views.

The sergeant-major, with his diamond stripes, and his short sword saluting, spoke to a captain, who at once reported to the colonel at the head of the regiment. The captain returned to his post:--

"Comp-a-ny--B ... ATTENTION!" ...

"Shudda ... HOP!" ...

"LOAD!" ...

"Shudda ... HOP!" ...

"R-i-i-i-i-ght ... FACE!" ...

"Fah--w-u-u-u-d ... MOTCH!" ...

"Fi--lef ... MOTCH!"