More than one in the ranks was looking back at him, eyes wide with fear.

Suddenly John Miller stood up.

"Damn rebels!" he roared, shaking his fist. "Come on, you sons of bitches."

With that a loud shout erupted from the regiment, some of the men began to stand up, officers shouting for them to remain kneeling.

"Check your caps, boys!" The cry went up and down the line, and men half-cocked their muskets, looking down to make sure their percussion caps were in place. A few fumbled in cap boxes to replace a lost or forgotten cap.

Two hundred yards.

Again another defiant rebel yell. An increase in the drum-roll beat. It was hard to see the men through the corn but their rifle tips and bayonets stood out clearly, the tidal wave coming forward, not slowing.

"Up, boys, up!"

The regiment stood up, the regiments down the line doing the same.

The colonel drew his sword and tilted his head back. "Set your sights for one hundred yards!" he roared. Men looked down at their Enfield rifles, some adjusting the rear sight.

"Volley fire on my command!"

They waited, rifles at the shoulder. The rebs kept on coming; they were not going to stop; they were coming straight in. Some of the rifle points disappeared, the men carrying them leveling their weapons for a straight-in bayonet charge.

'Take aim!"

The cry was picked up, each man shouting out the words, "Take aim!"

Across the regimental front six hundred rifles were lowered.

"Pick your targets, boys!" the colonel shouted.

Barrels shifted slightly, men searching for targets, hard to find in the cornfield, many therefore aiming straight in to where the enemy colors floated above the advancing line.

Bartlett felt as if he wanted to scream out the order himself. They were close. A hundred yards, yes, but it seemed as if within seconds those glistening bayonets would be right in his face.

The seconds dragged out, as slow as eternity itself. "Fire!"

The volley let loose as if delivered on the drill field. Six hundred rifles firing as one. Jim stood silent, awed. Before, they had always fired across an empty field. The corn directly in front of them just flattened, or flew up into the air. For a few seconds he wondered if any round had even been able to reach the rebs, but then through the smoke he saw rifles tips pitching backward, a regimental flag going down.

"Reload!" Bartlett roared, no longer able to hold himself back. "Hurry, boys! Reload!"

And then he heard it… a Southern voice yelling, "Charge, boys, charge 'em!"

It came from the cornfield.

A yell resounded, a high-pitched yipping like that of a pack of mad dogs on the scent of blood.

"Load, load, load!" A white officer was pacing in front of their volley line, gesturing wildly, urging the men on. Bits of cartridge paper flew into the air as men tore them open with their teeth, poured powder down barrels, squeezed bullet into barrel, and threw the paper aside. Ramrods were out, hundreds of arms rising up, pushing charges down the barrels.

All of it was combining together… "Charge!… Load, boys, load."… the maddening rebel yell almost on top of them… "Load, boys, load!"

"Volley fire, present!"

The colonel had remained absolutely still throughout, not budging an inch, not saying a single word, and Bartlett, looking at him, drew inspiration. Yelling would change nothing; it was calmness now that counted, calmness and nerves of steel.

"Take aim!"

He looked straight ahead. Cornstalks collapsing, flashes of bayonets, faces of men, distorted with battle fever and rage, rushing toward them.

Some of the men were not yet loaded, but most were, rifles leveled.

"Fire!"

A shattering roar. Then nothing but clouds of smoke. Men started to reload. Those who had not loaded quickly enough for the volley lowered their guns, aimed into the smoke, and fired.

And then a few men came out of the smoke, still at the run, bayonets lowered… and smashed into the line.

Wild oaths, screams, men slashing out, rebs lowering rifles in the last few seconds and firing at waist level into the solid ranks. More men going down, the line bowing back just to the flank of the colors, the national flag bobbing down for a moment.

Bartlett looked left and right. The battle line almost broke open where a couple of dozen rebs had waded in, slashing, jabbing, a rebel officer with revolver drawn dropping several men before being clubbed down.

At the center the national flag was half down, its holder bayoneted in the stomach, a reb reaching out grabbing the flagpole, wrestling to pull it out of the grip of the dying man.

Bartlett leapt forward, bayonet poised, and dived into the melee, bayoneting the reb who had hold of the flag, and was hoisting it up, shouting with glee. The man collapsed, flag going back down.

"Volley fire, present!"

It was the colonel, still motionless, oblivious, it seemed, to the near breakthrough. 'Take aim!"

Less than half the men complied; the rest were fighting hand to hand or were so rattled by the onset that they moved as if trapped in mud. More than one had thrown his rifle down and was already running.

Bartlett pulled the colors back from the dying reb, using the staff as a club, waving it back and forth, several rebs trying to close in on him.

"Fire!"

Another volley and the few rebs directly in front dropped, some riddled by half a dozen or more rounds.

Washington stepped back into the line, panting for breath, his rifle gone, the flagstaff clutched with both hands.

Someone slapped him on the back and he half turned, ready to fight. It was John Miller.

"Sergeant Major, I'll take that, sir. You got other jobs to do."

He was reluctant to give it up, looking up at the banner, red stripes, part of the flag torn by a bayonet, blood on the white stars.

"Sergeant Major, if you don't mind, please."

It was the colonel.

He nodded, handed the flagstaff to Miller, picked up a rifle lying on the ground, and stepped back through the line. "Volley fire on my command!"

The line had held, half a hundred were down, but it still held. A glimpse through the smoke showed him a second rebel line was up, in the cornfield, about a hundred yards back, the corn in between already shredded down to the ground. Beyond them, up on the low rise, artillery pieces were wheeling into place.

He stepped back beside his colonel.

'Take aim!" the colonel roared.

Rifles were aimed downrange.

"Fire!"

"Reload!"

Bartlett, panting for breath, looked over at his colonel, who smiled. And to his horror he saw that the man was clutching his midsection, blood trickling out. Washington reached out to grab him, but the colonel waved him off.

"Just a scratch," the colonel said with a smile.

"Surgeon!" Bartlett shouted, but his voice was drowned out by men yelling, explosions, the steady tearing zip of minies coming into their lines.

"Leave off of it," the colonel snapped. "I'm still fine."

He looked at Bartlett and grinned.

"No one will ever take that flag away from you ever again, Sergeant Major."

The colonel turned back to face the rebel line.

"Take aim!"

"Fire!"