ame to the Opequon they had a skirmish with a Massachusetts
regiment which fired a heavy volley into the cavalry ahead, driving it
back upon the 33d Virginia, next in column. The 33d broke, then rallied.
Other of the Stonewall regiments deployed in the fields and the 27th
advanced against the opposing force, part of Banks's rearguard. It gave
way, disappearing in the darkness of the woods. The grey column, pushing
across the Opequon, came into a zone of Federal skirmishers and
sharpshooters ambushed behind stone fences.

Somewhere about midnight Steve, walking in about the worst dream he had
ever had, determined that no effort was too great if directed toward
waking. It was a magic lantern dream--black slides painted only with stars
and fireflies, succeeded by slides in which there was a moment's violent
illumination, stone fences leaping into being as the musket fire ran along.
A halt--a company deployed--the foe dispersed, streaming off into the
darkness--the hurt laid to one side for the ambulances--_Column Forward!_
Sometimes a gun was unlimbered, trained upon the threatening breastwork and
fired. Once a shell burst beneath a wagon that had been drawn into the
fields. It held, it appeared, inflammable stores. Wagon and contents shot
into the air with a great sound and glare, and out of the light about the
place came a frightful crying. Men ran to right and left to escape the rain
of missiles; then the light died out, and the crying ceased. The column
went on slowly, past dark slides. Its progress seemed that of a snail army.
Winchester lay the fewest of miles away, but somewhere there was
legerdemain. The fewest of miles stretched like a rubber band. The troops
marched for three minutes, halted, marched again, halted, marched, halted.
To sleep--to sleep! _Column Forward!--Column Forward!_

There was a bridge to cross over a wide ditch. Steve hardly broke his
dream, but here he changed the current. How he managed he could scarce
have told, but he did find himself under the bridge where at once he lay
down. The mire and weed was like a blissful bed. He closed his eyes.
Three feet above was the flooring, and all the rearguard passing over.
It was like lying curled in the hollow of a drum, a drum beaten
draggingly and slow. "Gawd!" thought Steve. "It sounds like a Dead
March."

He slept, despite the canopy of footsteps. He might have lain like a log
till morning but that at last the flooring of the bridge rebelled. A