This sudden appearance of game causes as much jollity as wonder.
All are far from imagining its cause.

The next sound is that of bugles giving the command, and enabling the
advancing troops to preserve some kind of alignment. At this the wary
prick up their ears. Surprise stares on every face. Immediately
follows a crash of musketry as Rodes sweeps away our skirmish line as it
were a cobweb. Then comes the long and heavy roll of veteran infantry
fire, as he falls upon Devens's line.

The resistance which this division can make is as nothing against the
weighty assault of a line moving by battalions in mass. Many of the
regiments do their duty well. Some barely fire a shot. This is frankly
acknowledged in many of the reports. What can be expected of new troops,
taken by surprise, and attacked in front, flank, and rear, at once?
Devens is wounded, but remains in the saddle, nor turns over the command
to McLean until he has reached the Buschbeck line. He has lost
one-quarter of his four thousand men, and nearly all his superior
officers, in a brief ten minutes.

Schurz's division is roused by the heavy firing on the right, in which
even inexperienced ears detect something more than a mere repetition of
the picket-fight of three hours gone. Its commanding officers are at
once alert. Regimental field and staff are in the saddle, and the men
behind the stacks, leaving canteens, haversacks, cups with the steaming
evening coffee, and rations at the fires. Arms are taken. Regiments
are confusedly marched and counter-marched into the most available
positions, to meet an emergency which some one should have anticipated
and provided for. The absence of Barlow is now fatal.