ides!" And then clear and distinct
there rang out on the night air, a queer old continental command:

"Fix, pieces!"

They did not know what this meant at first. But some old men in the
line happened to remember and fixed their bayonets. Then there was
clatter and clank down the entire line as others imitated their
examples.

"Poise, fo'k!" rang out again more queerly still. The old men who
remembered brought their guns to the proper position. "Right
shoulder, fo'k!"--followed. Then, "Forward, March!" came back and
they moved straight at the batteries--now silent--and straight at the
breastworks, more silent still. Proudly, superbly, they came on, with
not a shout or shot--a chained line with links of steel--a moving
mass with one heart--and that heart,--victory.

On they came at the breastworks, walking over the dead who lay so
thick they could step from body to body as they marched. On they
came, following the old cocked hat that had once held bloodier
breastworks against as stubborn foe.

On--on--they came, expecting every moment to see a flame of fire run
round the breastworks, a furnace of flame leap up from the batteries,
and then--victory or death--behind old Hickory! Either was honor
enough!

And now they were within fifty feet of the breastworks, moving as if
on dress parade. The guns must thunder now or never! One step
more--then, an electrical bolt shot through every nerve as the old
man wheeled his horse and again rang out that queer old continental
command, right in the mouth of the enemy's ditch, right in the teeth
of his guns:

"Charge, pieces!"

It was Tom Travis who commanded the guns where the Columbia Pike met
the breastworks at the terrible deadly locust thicket. All night he
had stood at his post and stopped nine desperate charges. All night
in the flash and roar and the strange uncanny smell of blood and
black powder smoke, he had stood among the dead and dying calling
stubbornly, monotonously:

"Ready!"

"Aim!"

"Fire!"

And now it was nearly midnight and Schofield, finding the enemy
checked, was withdrawing on Nashville.

Tom Travis thought the battle was over, but in the glare and flash he
looked and saw another column, ghostly gray in the starlight, moving
stubbornly at his guns.

"Ready!" he shouted as his gunners sprang again to their pieces.

On came the column--beautifully on. How it thrilled him to see them!
How it hurt to think they were his people!

"_Aim!_" he t