This ruse of Dad’s (gleaned by him from the tale of a battle of Frederick the Great) took the enemy wholly and dumfoundedly by surprise. By every modern tradition of warfare the force on the hilltop, at sight of the approaching enemy, should have halted and thrown up some sort of defenses, or at the least should have awaited the foe’s approach. Instead the leading Yankee regiments, moving in semi-open formation, started down the hill at the double, straight at the climbing foes. And other regiments and yet others appearing over the summit joined in the charge. The crest and the upper slope of the hill were alive with running men. And five yards in advance of the foremost line leaped and ran and yelled and drummed a deliriously excited small boy. When a man, toiling laboriously up a steep hill, collides with a man running down the same hill, which is the more apt to be bowled over by the impact? The runner is reënforced by his own great impetus, the climber handicapped by his own fatigue and the sloping of the ground behind. And what is true of two men is true of two hundred or of two thousand or of any larger number of men. The Federal line crashed down upon the slow-moving Confederates, smashed their ranks and tore through them with scarce a halt. The Confederates, reeling from the collision, were sent in every direction, with no earthly chance to reform or to battle against the resistless onrush. The trap, so well planned and so badly sprung, was no longer a trap. For the proposed victims had torn their way out of it ere its proposed iron jaws could close relentlessly upon them. Straight on moved the Federals; slowly as they neared the hillfoot, to keep their whole depth intact and guard their baggage and heavy guns. But by this time the Confederates on either side of the advancing column were scattered beyond rallying. And the Confederate center, which had given back before the rush, was running for shelter toward a group of rambling houses that made up a creek-side village a half-mile behind and a bit to the left of the routed lines of gray. “Straight on,” advised Dad, “closing your formation. Three hours’ march should put us in touch with the main body of the Army of the Potomac. Leave a couple of regiments to make a demonstration against that village, so that the rest can get well out of reach without fear of a flank attack. Then when we have moved past, let them retreat and join us.” The corps commander, with just sense enough left not to tamper with his own unbelievable good luck, issued orders accordingly, leaving Dad behind as his staff representative with the two regiments and the mountain battery detailed to hold the village’s defenders in play. Jimmie, the fun being over, found his way back to his grandfather’s side, a very tired, very happy, very flushed little hero. Dad gripped both the perspiring and weary hands in silent gratitude for the lad’s safety.