McCausIand's Ford 8:15 A.M.
Up, men, up!" Sgt. Maj. Washington Bartlett knew something was happening long before the order was given. The division had deployed just behind the crest of a ridge, a ruined brick farmhouse above, obviously the site of yesterday's terrible battle. Just beyond the ridge a steady fusillade was resounding, the men of Ord's surviving troops engaged just on the other side of the rise. Since deploying, the men had been busy scratching at the ground with bayonets, tin cups, anything to dig out a little protection from the long-distance artillery bombardment coming down out of the hill to the left.
A few dozen had been hit, the first blooding of the division, but the men had held steady.
Minutes earlier he had seen Sheridan galloping up from the ford, and the way he rode, flat out, told Bartlett that something big was about to take place.
He quietly worked up his nerve, at one point looking over at John Miller, who returned his gaze, tight-lipped.
"Think we're going in?" Miller asked.
"Well, that general didn't ride over just to ask us how we were doing."
And now the command. "Up, men, up!"
Within seconds, like a giant dark wave, the ten regiments of the United States Colored Troops were up, preparing to dress into line of battle.
"By column of regiments, starting from the left!" 'That's us," Bartlett shouted, and he started to move to the left of the line, the position the colonel said he should assume when they went into a fight.
"By column of companies, to the left wheel, march!"
Surprised, the men looked at each other, not responding at first. They were being ordered to turn about and head back to the ford, away from the fight.
Bartlett looked back. The other regiments were repeating their maneuver, stepping away from what they thought would be their assault position, shifting from battlefront into columns by company front.
Sheridan came back from the front line, still riding hard, one of the white officers of Bartlett's regiment trotting over to meet him.
"Sir, I thought we were going to fight?" the officer cried. "My boys are ready."
"You will fight, damn it!" Sheridan cried. "We're being flanked to the right and rear on the other side of the creek. You are going to have to meet Lee's flank attack head-on. Now get your boys moving!"
Sheridan galloped off toward the ford several hundred yards away.
That stopped the grumbling and a few even offered a cheer as Sheridan rode off.
The officer turned, grim-faced.
"Move it! Back to the ford! Move it!"
From the lip of the crest Bartlett could see small formations of white troops coming as well, running fast.