Up in the cupola a man whistled shrilly. For a moment he leaned far out—they could see his brown hatchet-face hanging above them, etched against the wood structure and the sulphurous sky. He waved a hand indefinitely at everyone in the yard. He howled, “Now you’ll see the Johnnies get their ass kicked. The First Corps’s coming up!”

When they moved beyond the nearest clump of trees, they could see a long parade of soldiers crawling like a snake past the orchard by the Bliss farm, a blue-black worm spiked at intervals with striped flags. They were roaring as they came—a deep and serious chant, the blending of a thousand single humors and profanities.

“Flanked by more Nationals,” said Duffey, “and maybe they’ll be keeping this war out of your garden, Dan.” The sun threw its resisting waves of heat across the long ridge, it contorted the fence-rows and trees, but still you could see more caravans in the Emmetsburg road—horses and guns, a speeding migration which sent the dust mounting.

They struck the rack-backed line of mortised fence: the rails flew. Now they were separate figures who had built themselves into a wholesome tide. They came with a kind of horrid desperation; the officers trotted beside them, all horses long since led to the rear; the officers carried their medieval swords. They were howling, Step fast, men! Shoot low when we go in, remember, keep your fire low. The infantry dipped across the Fairfield road; now they were aiming to the west of the Schmucker house, and all around you heard the murmur of weary cavalrymen, half mocking and half fervent: they said, there’s plenty of Secesh down ahead by that crick, and they don’t care who they hit. Hello, Wisconsin!… The head of the column swerved sharply, and a mob of horsemen raced by. The seasoned, religious face of General Reynolds again; he had his staff with him. Muddled hoofs clipped at the hard pathway as they bunched across; the general swung his horse to the right and reined in, waving toward the grove behind the seminary. His crisp voice above the jolt of the thrashing horde … go in … left through this timber, Meredith! Gamble will retire as you advance through him. A flat voice sang: left-oblique—and a dozen other voices rattled it in fainter echoes. Left-oblique, left-oblique … ha. The flags looked rich and glittering, even in the corrosion of their gilt and fringe. Blue standards, national colors, they dipped and waved as the lines swung toward the west.