The Northern rifles flashed again on the edge of the creek, and from a long stone fence, behind which they had also taken refuge for a last stand.
Harry and his comrades urged Jackson off the turnpike, where he was a fair target for the rifles whenever there was light, and into the bushes beside it.

They were just in time, as the night was illuminated an instant later by cannon flashes and then a shower of bullets swept the road where Jackson and his staff had been.
Harry thought that they would stop now, but he did not yet know fully his Stonewall Jackson.

He ordered up another Virginia regiment, which, reckless of death, charged straight in front, crossed the creek and drove the men in blue out of their position.
Yet the Northern troops, men from Massachusetts, refused to be routed.
They fell back in good order, carrying their guns with them, and stopping at intervals to fire with cannon and rifles at their pursuers.
Jackson and his staff spurred through the Opequon.

Water and mud flew in Harry's face, but he did not notice them.

He was eager to be up with the first, because Jackson was still urging on the pursuit, even far into the night.