It was dark when Tim opened his eyes, and for a moment he couldn’t remember where he was. Then a passing horseman, giving orders, reminded him of their position. Tim was conscious of the silent lines of men stretching away to the rear, and he knew that sentries in the unseen fort waited quietly in the darkness, straining their eyes toward the Yankee pickets, wondering when the attack would come. Fear came to him, then ebbed away. He knew that the hours ahead must be lived a minute at a time. He got to his feet. Muffled voices sounded on the left and Sergeant Fitch came out of the gloom. “General Strong and Colonel Rodman are up and about.” “Did you get some sleep?” “Not much. But most of the boys are dead to the world.” “Fitch, do you think the men are fit?” “Fit enough, I guess. But that new lad Greene, he worries me. He’s so confounded young.” The colonel came along the line. “Turn the boys out. We have a job on hand. We must have silence as we move to our picket line.” In the ghostly light the voices of the sergeants brought the boys to life. Fitch’s voice came in a pleasant rumble. “Here, Steele, time to get up. Up now, Bailey. Come along, Campana. That’s it, Greene. Time to rise, lad, we have a job to do.” And from farther away came other voices. “On your feet, grab your rifles, put on your boots.” The colonel’s aide ordered quiet, and the sounds died down to a restless hum as the men clasped their belts around their waists, grabbed their cartridge boxes and fixed their bayonets. Tim walked among his boys. Most of the faces were chestnut brown from two years in the southern sun, but one face stood out white as chalk. Tim stopped to talk to Private Greene. As he faced the boy he thought, He’s just as I probably was two years ago. “Just keep moving,” Tim said in a quiet voice. “It’s dangerous to falter.” They moved forward, keeping their line as straight as they could in the dark. Just as Tim fancied he could pick out the shape of the fort against the sky a Yankee picket stood in their path, raising his hand in silent greeting. The order came to halt and rest. In the still, gray hours General Strong, with a yellow bandanna fluttering at his neck, mounted on a big, stamping horse, moved along the line. He paused near Sergeant Fitch and looked down at the men. “Don’t stop to fire. Trust in God and give them the bayonet.” Then he spurred his horse, and the man and the massive haunches of his charger and the beast’s switching, whipping tail were swallowed by the gloom. Tim noticed that Private Greene stood close. “We move with caution till the enemy pickets open fire,” Tim said. “Then we go in double quick. The Maine and Pennsylvania boys will come in right behind.” The sand gave way with every step, and a lump of impatience grew in Tim’s chest. As the soldiers advanced the ones on the right flank fell back so that they wouldn’t be forced to walk in the ocean.