On the morning of the seventeenth Hooker’s corps was entrenched on the far side of the Antietam, the creek between him and the main Army of the Potomac. On the preceding afternoon, at McClellan’s orders, Fighting Joe had crossed one of the creek’s four stone bridges, defeated a Confederate detachment under Hood, and had seized on a position. Now, on the seventeenth, Hooker received further orders to attack the Confederate line, engaging it closely; while the bulk of the main army should cross the creek under cover of the fighting and throw itself on the Confederates. The plan met with only fair success. General Mansfield was killed early in the action. Hooker was wounded. The embattled Confederates stood firm as a rock; and all day long, at close quarters, the mutual slaughter raged. Four times with his regiment in Hooker’s corps Dad led his men against the Confederate center. Four times the murderous volleys of the Southerners sent back the assailants, almost cut to pieces. Once more, Battle Jimmie far to the fore, clanging on his deafening drum, the regiment charged with its brigade. Half-way up the slope, Dad found himself senior officer, not only of his regiment, but of his brigade. Battles make field-promotion very swift. Bare-headed, sword in hand, Dad toiled upward, calling to his fast-thinning ranks to close up and follow. At his side drummed Jimmie, crazy with excitement; screaming mingled insults, praise and encouragement to the survivors. Like some gaunt old war spirit, Dad raged at the head of his men; a cyclone of lead roaring and whistling around him. His example, and that of the howling, drumming boy at his side, proved infectious. With a gasping cheer the depleted ranks staggered forward in the wake of the gray-haired man and the drummer. Against the Confederate batteries they crashed, headlong. There was a mêlée of hand-to-hand fighting for an instant; then a break and a scrambling run on the part of the defenders. And the hill was won. Dad whirled about on the handful of blue-coated victors who clustered around him, yelling ecstatically. “Bully!” cried Dad. “Good boys! We’ve got the hill. Now to hold it until the support can come up. Captain Fitch, deploy--” Dad saw ten million sparks leap into crackling life. A billion more exploded within his brain. He fell from a great, great height into a cool darkness that lovingly wrapped itself about soul and mind and body. Somewhere, he vaguely remembered, a battle was raging. But it had ceased to interest him. Then he fell quietly asleep. * * * * * Dad shook off the sweet lethargy and opened his eyes. There was work to do. He recalled everything now. The senior officers of his brigade were dead or incapacitated. He had led his men up a hill that vomited fire and shot. They had barely won the summit. This surely was no moment for their leader to drop into a doze. He felt heartily ashamed of himself.