The Sixty-fifth Virginia, Colonel Erskine, covered the way with a mountain stride. It was nearing now the pass of the South Mountain, and its road lay uphill. It had done good service at Gettysburg, and it had its wounded in that anguished column over on the Chambersburg Pike. It had left its dead upon the field. Now, climbing the long hills, colours slanted forward, keen, bronzed faces slanted forward, man and beast streaming rain and all battling with the gusty wind, the Sixty-fifth missed its dead, missed its wounded, knew that the army had suffered defeat, knew that the high hopes of this campaign lay in ashes, knew that these days formed a crisis in the war, knew that all the sky had darkened over the South, knew that before it lay grim struggle and a doubtful end. The units of the Sixty-fifth knew many things that in the old piping time of peace they had never thought to know. The grain in the fields was all broken down, the woods clashed their branches, through flawed sheets of dull silver the distant mountain crests were just divined. The wind howled like a banshee, and for all that it was July the air was cold. The Sixty-fifth thought of other marches. Before McDowell—Elk Run Valley—that was bad. Elk Run Valley was bad. Before Mechanicsville—coming down from Beaver Dam Station—that was bad. Bath to Romney—that was worst.... We’ve had plenty of bad marches—plenty of marches—plenty of heroic marches. We are used to marching—used to marching.... Marching and fighting—marching and fighting.... Tall and lean and tanned, the Thunder Run men opposed the wind from the mountains. Allan Gold and Sergeant Billy Maydew exchanged observations. “I wouldn’t be tired,” said Billy, “going up Thunder Run Mountain. I air not tired anyhow.” “No, there’s no help in being tired.... I hope that Tom and Sairy are dry and warm—” “I don’t mind wet,” said Billy, “and I don’t mind cold, and I can tighten my belt when I’m hungry, but the thing that air hard for me to stand air going without sleep. I tell my will to hold hard and I put tobacco in my eyes, but sleep sure air a hard thing for me to go without. I could sleep now—I could sleep—I could sleep.... Yes; I hope all Thunder Run air dry and warm—Mr. Cole and Mrs. Cole and Mother and Christianna and Violetta and Rosalinda and the children and Grandpap and the dawgs and Steve Dagg—No; I kinder hope Steve air wet and whimpering.... Thunder Run’s a long way off. I could go to sleep—and sleep—and sleep ...” “I’m not sleepy,” said Allan. “But I wish I had a pitcher of milk—” The Sixty-fifth determined to try singing. “O my Lawd, whar you gwine? Keep in de middle ob de road! Gwine de way dat Moses trod, Keep in de middle ob de road—”