The
regiments that formed the core of resistance were being pared down
continually. There was a steady dribble of fugitives to the rear,
and those who fought felt themselves going back always, like one who
slips on ice.
The sun, far up the heavens, now poured down beams upon the vast cloud
of smoke and vapor in which the two armies fought. The few people left
in Dover, red hot for the South, cheered madly as they saw their enemy
driven further and further away.
Grant, the man of destiny, ill clad and insignificant in appearance,
now came upon the field and saw his beaten army. But the bulldog in
him shut down its teeth and resolved to replace defeat with victory.
His greatest qualities, strength and courage in the face of disaster,
were now about to shine forth. His countenance showed no alarm.
He rode among the men cheering them to renewed efforts. He strengthened
the weak places in the line that his keen eyes saw. He infused a new
spirit into the army. His own iron temper took possession of the troops,
and that core of resistance, desperate when he came, suddenly hardened
and enlarged.
Dick felt the change. It was of the mind, but it was like a cool breath
upon the face. It was as if the winds had begun to blow courage.
A great shout rolled along the Northern line.
"Grant has come!" exclaimed Pennington, who was bleeding from a slight
wound in the shoulder, but who was unconscious of it. "And we've quit
retreating!"
The Nebraska youth had divined the truth.
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