The cavalcade dismounted and hitched their horses. Dickinson and party were already there. It was not yet seven. Jackson walked between his surgeon and his second. “How do you feel about it now, General?” asked the surgeon. “All right, sir; all right. I will wing him, never fear.” But Overton was still thinking, his head down, silently and deeply. He had just heard of Dickinson’s boast that he would shoot within an inch of the button over Jackson’s heart. Jackson was slender and wore a coat always buttoned tightly around his erect, thin, military form. “General,” he said quietly, as they walked along, “unbutton your coat to the top button. Let it hang loose.” And this it was that saved Jackson’s life and gave to his country one of her greatest generals and one of her greatest Presidents. Dickinson’s second drew the choice for position. He promptly stationed Dickinson with his back to the rising sun. The glare would be in Jackson’s face. But Overton drew the word and his quiet face lighted with pleasure, for he had even thought that out, how he would give it. Nothing escaped Thomas Overton when his friend’s life was at stake. There were peculiar words in use in the old Revolutionary manual of arms. “Poise fl’ok!” would mean to-day: “Present arms.” The change is obvious: “fl’ok—” “firelock.” “Ready, aim, fere!” and they dwelt long on f-e-r-e, for it meant fire. And when it came from Overton’s mouth he brought it out with a shriek and volume, quick and sharp, so unexpected that it took calmness and nerve to think more of the shooting than the word. Dickinson was younger than Jackson and far handsomer. He stood at his mark smilingly, confidently. Jackson stood, his thin, determined face drawn with the intensity of that earnestness and calmness which it ever wore in critical moments. It is said that he had a bullet in his mouth to clench his teeth upon, a thing he often did in the agony of the great physical pain which, from one cause and another, was his inheritance all through life. The two men were as unlike as nature could make them. Dickinson, who came from Maryland was a well-bred cavalier. Jackson had no breeding at all. He was born a day or two after they buried his father in a pauper’s grave and all his mother ever told him was that they had left Ireland to escape British persecution and that his grandfather was hanged for leading in an Irish rebellion. Dickinson was gay, brave, cool and the best shot with a pistol living. Jackson was earnest, terribly earnest; cool, but gunpowdery. He stood for something. He was a man of destiny—felt it, knew it. Dickinson was a man of chance. Jackson felt he was destined for great things. He did not see how, but he knew he would kill Dickinson. “Are you ready, gentlemen?” asked Overton. “I am ready, sir,” said Dickinson. “Ready!” snapped Jackson from his thin, drawn lips. “Then f-e-r-e!” shouted Overton, almost before the word had left Jackson’s lips.