"That nigger's a bird," said Grafton.

Something serious was going to be done now--the intuition of it ran down
the line in that mysterious fashion by which information passes down a
line of waiting men. The line rose, advanced, and dropped again.
Companies deployed to the left and behind--fighting their way through
the chaparral as a swimmer buffets his way through choppy waves. Every
man saw now that the brigade was trying to form in line of battle for a
charge on that curving, smokeless flame of fire that ran to and fro
around the top of the hill--blazing fiercely and steadily here and
there. For half an hour the officers struggled to form the scattering
men. Forward a little way; slipping from one bush and tree to another;
through the thickets and bayonet grass; now creeping; now a dash through
an open spot; now flat on the stomach, until Crittenden saw a wire fence
stretching ahead. Followed another wait. And then a squad of negro
troopers crossed the road, going to the right, and diagonally. The
bullets rained about them, and they scuttled swiftly into the brush. The
hindmost one dropped; the rest kept on, unseeing; but Crittenden saw a
Lieutenant--it was Sharpe, whom he had met at home and at
Chickamauga--look back at the soldier, who was trying to raise himself
on his elbow--while the bullets seemed literally to be mowing down the
tall grass about him. Then Crittenden heard a familiar grunt behind him,
and the next minute Bob's figure sprang out into the open--making for
the wounded man by the sympathy of race. As he stooped, to Crittenden's
horror, Bob pitched to the ground--threshing around like an animal that
has received a blow on the head. Without a thought, without
consciousness of his own motive or his act, Crittenden sprang to his
feet and dashed for Bob. Within ten feet of the boy, his toe caught in a
root and he fell headlong. As he scrambled to his feet, he saw Sharpe
making for him--thinking that he had been shot down--and, as he turned,