Jackson waited a little and scanned the field again. The morning had now come in the west as well as in the east, and he saw the strong Northern artillery posted on both sides of the turnpike, threatening the Southern advance.
“We must open with the cannon,” he said, and he dispatched Harry and Dalton to order up the guns.
The Southern batteries were pushed forward, and opened with a terrific crash on their enemy, telling the waiting people in Winchester that the battle had begun. The infantry and cavalry on either side, eager despite their immense exertions and loss of rest and lack of food, were held back by their officers, while the artillery combat went on.
Jackson, anxious to see the result, rode a little further forward, and the group of staff officers, of course, went with him. Some keen-eyed Northern gunner picked them out, and a shell fell near. Then came another yet nearer, and when it burst it threw dirt all over them.
“A life worth so much as General Jackson’s should not be risked this way,” whispered Dalton to Harry, “but I don’t dare say anything to him.”
“Nor do I, and if we did dare he’d pay no attention to us. Our gunners don’t seem to be driving their gunners away. Do you notice that, George?”
“Yes, I do and so does General Jackson. I can see him frowning.”
The Northern batteries, nearly always of high quality, were doing valiant service that morning. The three batteries on the left of the turnpike and another of eight heavy rifled guns on the right, swept the whole of Jackson’s front with solid shot, grape and shell. The Southern guns, although more numerous, were unable to crush them. The batteries of the South were suffering the more. One of them was driven back with the loss of half its men and horses. At another every officer was killed.
“They outshoot us,” said Dalton to Harry, “and they make a splendid stand for men who have been kept on the run for two days and nights.”
“So they do,” said Harry, “but sooner or later they’ll have to give way. I heard General Jackson say that we would win a victory.”
Dalton glanced at him.
“So you feel that way, too,” he said very seriously. “I got the belief some time ago. If he says we’ll win we’ll win. His prediction settles it in my mind.”
“There’s a fog rising from the creek,” said Harry, “and it’s growing heavier. I think Ewell was to march that way with his infantry and it will hold him back. Chance is against us.”
“His guns have been out of action, but there they come again! I can’t see them, but I can hear them through the mist.”
“And here goes the main force on our left. Stonewall is about to strike.”
Harry had discovered the movement the moment it was begun. The whole Stonewall brigade, the Acadians and other regiments making a formidable force, moved to the left and charged. Gordon, Banks’ able assistant, threw in fresh troops to meet the Southern rush, and they fired almost point blank in the faces of the men in gray. Harry, riding forward with the eager Jackson, saw many fall, but the Southern charge was not checked for a moment. The men, firing their rifles, leaped the stone fences and charged home with the bayonet. The Northern regiments were driven back in disorder and their cavalry sweeping down to protect them, were met by such a sleet of bullets that they, too, were driven back.
Now all the Southern regiments came up. Infantry, cavalry and artillery crossed the creek and the ridges and formed in a solid line which nothing could resist. The enemy, carrying away what cannon he could, was driven swiftly before them. The rebel yell, wild and triumphant, swelled from ten thousand throats as Jackson’s army rushed forward, pursuing the enemy into Winchester.
Harry was shouting with the rest. He couldn’t help it. The sober Dalton had snatched off his cap, and he, too, was shouting. Then Harry saw Jackson himself giving way to exultation, for the first time. He was back at Winchester which he loved so well, he had defeated the enemy before it, and now he was about to chase him through its streets. He spurred his horse at full speed down a rocky hill, snatched off his cap, whirled it around his head and cried at the top of his voice again and again: