head, young feller, the enemy ain't that way. He's in
front."

"He's forgot his toothbrush, Bill, and he's going back in a hurry to get
it."

"If I had a horse like that I'd ride him in the right direction."

"Tell 'em in Winchester that the foot cavalry are marchin' a hundred
miles an hour."

Harry did not resent these comments. He merely flung back an occasional
comment of his own and hurried on until he reached the rear. Then in the
dusk of the road he found four or five men limping along, and ready when
convenient to drop away in the darkness. Harry wasted no time. The fire
in his blood that had come from Jackson was still burning. He snatched a
pistol from his belt and, riding directly at them, cried:

"Forward and into the ranks at once, or I shoot!"

"But we are lame, sir!" cried one of the men. "See my foot is bleeding!"

He held up one foot and red drops were falling from the ragged shoe.

"It makes no difference," cried Harry. "Barefooted men should be glad
to march for Stonewall Jackson! One, two, three! Hurry, all of you, or I
shoot!"

The men took one look at the flaming face, and broke into a run for the
rear guard. Harry saw them in the ranks and then beat up the woods on
either side of the road, but saw no more stragglers or deserters. Then
he galloped through the edge of the forest and rejoined the general at
the head of the command.

"Were they all marching?" asked Jackson.

"All but four, sir."

"And the four?"

"They're marching now, too."

"Good. How far are we from the arsenal?"

"About eight miles, sir."

"Isn't it nearer nine?"

"I should say nearer eight, sir."

"You should know, and at any rate we'll soon see."

Jackson did not speak to him again directly, evidently keeping him at
his side now for sure guidance, but he continually sent other aides
along the long lines to urge more speed. The men were panting, and,
despite the cold of the winter night, beads of perspiration stood on
every face. But Jackson was pitiless. He continually spurred them on,
and now Harry knew with the certainty of fate that he would get there in
time. He would reach Hertford before fresh Union troops could come. He
was as infallible as fate.

There was no breath left for whispering in the ranks of Jackson's men.
Nothing was heard but the steady beat of marching feet, and now and
then, the low command of an officer. But such commands were few. There
were no more stragglers, and the chief him