I push through the line slightly forward of the nearest brigade, and in a moment the sharp command, “Attention!” rings down the line. “Shoulder arms! Forward! _March!_” And with martial tread and floating flags the line of battle is away. “Guide left!” shout the line-officers. “Guide left--_left_!” and that is the only order I hear as we press forward through the thick trees and underbrush. I lean well forward on my horse’s neck, striving to catch if possible a glimpse of the Confederate line; but hark! Here comes the first shot. “Steady! _Steady_, men!” Another, and now a few scattering bullets come singing through the woods. The line does not halt or return the fire, but presses steadily on to the oft-repeated command of “Forward! _forward_!” that never ceases to ring from one end to the other of the advancing line. Soon the woods become less dense, and through the trees I see just beyond us an open field partly covered with small bushes, and several hundred yards away, crowning a slight crest on its farther side, a low line of fence-rails and loose stones, which, as we leave the edge of the woods, and come into the open, suddenly vomits flame and smoke along its entire length, and a crashing volley tells us that we have found the enemy. For an instant our line staggers, but the volley has been aimed too high and few men fall. “Steady--steady, men!” shout the officers. “_Aim!_” and almost instinctively the whole line throw forward their pieces. “_Fire!_” and the next instant a savage volley answers that of the Confederates. I can see that it has told, too, for in several places along the opposite crest men spring to their feet as if to fall back, but their officers promptly rally them. “Pour it into them, men!” shout our officers. “Let them have it. It’s our turn now!” for brute instinct has triumphed and the savage is uppermost with all of us. For a moment or two the men stand and fire at will, as rapidly as it is possible to reload, and then the Confederate fire seems to slowly slacken; so, with a universal shout of “Forward! _forward_!” we press towards the enemy’s line. Before we are much more than half-way across the field, however, they seem to have abandoned our front, for I cannot see anything ahead of us, though I stand up in my stirrups and look eagerly forward. But what--what is that? _Crash! crash!_ and from a little bush-covered plateau on our right the enemy sends a couple of rattling volleys on our exposed flank that do us great harm, and I realize that _we are the outflanked_!