An orderly came up the back side of the ridge. The ——th Virginia was needed to cover a break in the line to the right. Off perforce went the regiment, with one backward look at the homesick battery, left without infantry support. An aide dashed up, rose in his stirrups, and shouted, “Move your guns to the ridge in your rear!” He was gone; Botetourt looked and shook its head. The horses were all killed. “Put your hands to them, men!” ordered Norgrove—and they tried. But the scrub was thick, the ground rough; there burst a frightful fire, shell and musketry, and on came the blue wave hurrahing. “All right! We can’t!” shouted Norgrove. “_Load!_ This hill’s Botetourt County—_Take aim!_—and we don’t propose to emigrate! _Fire!_” The blue guns threw death. Deep, many-atomed, resistless, up roared the blue wave. It struck and went over Botetourt County, and, taking the two guns, turned them on the Botetourt men. There were few Botetourt men now, Botetourt was become again the wilderness. Norgrove jerked the trail from a gun, a man in blue calling on him all the time to surrender. He made at the man, who lifted his rifle and fired. Norgrove fell, mortally wounded, fell by the side of J.J. Smith. He put his arms about the gunner, “Come on! Come on!” he cried.... The wave swept over Botetourt County, the dead and the dying. The ——th Virginia, fighting strongly in another quarter of the field, came in mid-afternoon to a stand between charges. All knew now that the day was going against them. The smoke hung thick, a dark velvet in the air, torn in places by the lightning from the guns. Grey and blue—all was dimly seen. The flags looked small and distant, mere riddled and blood-stained rags. The voice of War was deep and loud. The ——th Virginia, looking up from a hollow between the hills, saw two grey guns, stolid in the midst of wreck and ruin. The plateau around had a nightmare look, it was so weighted and cumbered with destruction. There was an exploded caisson, a wreck of gun-carriages. Not a horse had been spared. The agony of them was ghastly, sunk in the scrub, up and down and on the crest of the ridge.... A few grey gunners yet served the grey guns. A captain, young, with a strong face and good brown eyes, stood out, higher than the rest, careless of the keening minies, the stream of shells. “A habit is a habit, men! This battery’s got a habit of being steadfast! Keep it up—keep it up!” “Captain Johnston—Captain Johnston! They’ve killed Lieutenant Douthatt—” “Lay him in the scrub and fight on. How many rounds, Peters?—Two?—All right! You can do a good deal with two rounds—” “It’s the rest of the homesick battery,” said the ——th Virginia, “_Botetourt Artillery! Botetourt Artillery!_”