The old man redoubled his furious efforts to rally his regiment and to force it onward to the charge. The whole crooked line had halted. It was wavering like the tail of a kite. Presently it must snap. Then--from nowhere in particular--from the skies, some vowed afterward--came a diversion. Down the field, in a line parallel to the woods, and a dozen rods in front of the wavering Federal line, galloped a gun-carriage horse, its harness flapping and flying about its flashing hoofs. Astride the barebacked horse was a small and marvelous figure. The figure of a short and stocky boy, fiery red of hair, his powder-blacked face freckled, his little eyes glaring. He was clad in the obviously chopped-down uniform of an artilleryman. On his back, suspended by a strap that was fastened around his neck, bounced and rattled an enormous drum. In the boy’s trouser waistband were stuck two drumsticks. The lad was kicking vehemently with his heels at his horse’s stomach. But as he came midway adown the Federal line he jerked his mount to a halt, slid to earth and, in the same gesture, unslung his drum. He had halted not twenty feet from Dad. “Now, then,” shrilled the boy, his harsh young voice ringing out like a trumpet-call, “what’re you longlegged loafers waiting for? Hey? Charge, you chumps! Charge!” He faced the woods. His drum rolled out a deafening tattoo. “Battle Jimmie!” shouted someone in the ranks. “Jimmie!” echoed Dad. “Jimmie! Oh, it’s _my_ boy!” “_Charge!_” shrilled Jimmie, his drum seconding the fiery command. And they charged. CHAPTER XVII “BATTLE JIMMIE” There is a baffling yet no less true psychological element in man which, after he has come to the uttermost limit of his powers, enables him to keep on past all seemingly possible bounds. The Federal line, that had sagged and wavered and was on the brink of retreat, forgot momentarily its panic impulse; forgot the flying death that bit deep into its very vitals; forgot all save the fact that an absurd-looking little boy was advancing--fearlessly, gayly--where they, grown men, had faltered and feared to go. The mad roll of the drum, the treble shout of “Charge!” the spectacle of a youngster berating middle-aged veterans as though they were bad nursery children--all this infected the line with a queer, half-hysterical impetus. Someone laughed aloud. The laugh ran along the ranks in every cadence of surprised mirth. Dad and a score of other officers caught up the word “Charge!” Irregularly, in shockingly bad formation, staggering like drunkards--yet staggering _forward_--the men got into motion. Now they were on the run, a laughing, swearing, wholly unafraid mob. Following close behind the boy they made for the forest death-trap--the trap they no longer feared. Fast as they ran, two figures were ever in advance of them: Major James Dadd, and, close at his side, “Battle Jimmie.”