Colonel Evans had galloped back to his line’s center where Colonel Sloan’s South Carolinians were crouching at the wood’s edge to make themselves into a difficult target for the enemy artillery. A few rebel skirmishers had advanced beyond the fence and were firing rifles at the advancing Yankees, but Starbuck, watching from horseback at the trees’ edge, could see no sign that the rifle fire was causing any casualties. The enemy came steadily on, driven by the music of the distant northern bands and by the beat of the drummers advancing with the companies and by the proximity of glorious victory that waited for the attackers at the hill’s crest where the first of Nathan Evans’s two ancient cannon had arrived. The gun was hurriedly unlimbered, turned, then fired a roundshot down the slope. The ball bounced on the turf, soared over the Rhode Islanders and plunged harmlessly into the trees beyond. A northern shell exploded short. The sound of the airburst was appalling, as though part of the fabric of the universe itself had been suddenly cracked in two. The air became crazy with smoke and sizzling fragments. Starbuck shuddered. The artillery fire by the stone bridge had been scary, but this was much worse. These gunners were aiming directly at the Legion and their shells screeched like demons as they flashed overhead.

“Skirmishers!” Major Bird called in a cracked voice. He tried again, this time achieving a firmer tone. “Skirmishers! Advance!”

A and K companies, the Legion’s two flanking companies, clambered awkwardly over the fence rails and ran into the pastureland. The men were encumbered by their rifles, their sheathed bayonets, their bowie knives and haversacks, and by the canteens, pouches and cap boxes that hung from their belts. They made a loose formation a hundred paces ahead of the Legion. Their task was first to deter the enemy skirmishers, then to snipe at the main line of attackers. The riflemen opened fire, enveloping each kneeling marksman in a small cloud of smoke. Sergeant Truslow walked from man to man, while Captain Roswell Jenkins, still on horseback, fired his revolver at the distant northerners.

“Make sure your weapons are loaded!” Major Bird called to the remaining eight companies. It seemed slightly late to remember such advice, but nothing seemed real this morning. Thaddeus Bird, schoolmaster, was commanding a regiment in battle? He giggled at the thought and earned a disapproving look from Sergeant Major Proctor. The Yankees were still five hundred paces away, but coming on at a smart pace now. The northern officers carried drawn swords. Some carried the blades upright in a stiff attempt at formal dignity, while others slashed at dandelions and thistles as though they were out on a Sunday afternoon stroll. A few were mounted on nervous horses. One horse, scared by the gunfire, had gone out of control and was bolting with its rider across the face of the northern attack.