Captain James Wren of the 48th Pennsylvania ordered his men to lie prone alongside the 51st New York, and they cut loose at will into the leafy foliage and Rebel barricades across the stream. Wren was coolly directing their fire when an enlisted man from the 6th New Hampshire wandered over to complain that the Rebels had shot off the trigger finger of his right hand. The wounded man shouted that he still had 40 rounds in his cartridge box and did not want to go to the rear. Wren, succumbing to the thrill of the moment, turned to the man and blurted, “Now you bite the ends off these cartridges and I will fire them cartridges of yours.” Putting down his sword, Wren took the man’s musket and carelessly stood up to shoot.

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Three balls in rapid succession zinged close by the captain’s ears. His men shouted to him to get down–the Rebs had his range. At the same moment, Wren saw a Confederate leisurely step from behind a large tree next to the bridge, take careful aim and squeeze the trigger. The bullet whistled just above Wren’s head. Wisely, he ducked for cover.

Steadying the musket on a fence rail, Wren sighted on the tree. As the Confederate exposed himself for another shot, the captain jerked the trigger and missed. Hastily reloading, he sighted again, determined to draw blood. The next time the graycoat stepped out to shoot, Wren fired. When the smoke cleared, he thought he saw his target double over and drop. Wren promised himself to check his kill if he lived to cross the creek.

The noise at the bridge reached a nerve-shattering crescendo as rifle fire, shrieks and curses mingled with the exploding shells and rattling canister from Simmonds’ Kentucky (Union) Battery, which was firing over the Federals’ heads into the Confederate positions.

Colonel John Hartranft’s men in the 51st Pennsylvania scrambled over the fence bordering both sides of the road south of the bridge, and took cover behind the lower wing of the abutment. The colonel, who was with his colors, used the upper abutment for shelter; he ordered his men to tear out the fence rails directly across the mouth of the bridge.

From behind the knolls, Ferrero, who had caught up with the 35th Massachusetts, could not understand why the 51st Pennsylvania had not crossed the stream as ordered. The dapper dancing master snapped at the ever-present Hudson to go down and find out why Hartranft had not done as commanded. Before trotting out into the corn-stubbled valley, Hudson pointedly asked the New Englanders not to shoot him in the back.

Taking off at a steady trot, Hudson dashed into line just south of the bridge. The men pointed him in the direction of the northern parapet, where he found Hartranft and his color guard huddled below the bridge wall. Hudson screamed for the colonel to cross the bridge.

“Does he desire it?” an incredulous Hartranft shouted back. “Yes, sir,” Hudson replied.

“Very well.”

The two officers headed south together. Hartranft and his color guard worked their way into the crowd on the bridge, while Hudson sought out Colonel Robert B. Potter of the 51st New York and told him to follow the Pennsylvanians across. Potter shouted at his men to move and bolted onto the parapet, where he stood shouting and swearing like a madman.

Hudson, for his part, hurriedly raced back to the safety of the knolls. As he explained later, “Having on straps & sword & pistol, I was willing to keep moving,” lest he prove to be a prize target for some Confederate sharpshooter.

Confederate Colonel Benning, commanding the Georgians at the bridgehead, found his position, which his soldiers had held so valiantly for so long, now becoming untenable. The morning attacks had left his men physically exhausted. Their fire dwindled perceptibly as the Yankees down at the bridge began to stir. He passed word along the crest for the men to fall back.

At the bridge, Captain William Allebaugh, Sergeant William Thomas, three color-bearers and a member of the color guard bolted across the span and planted the regimental standard in the road at the mouth of the bridge. Simultaneously, Hartranft, hat in hand, rushed to join them, screaming at the top of his lungs. His men followed his excited example, clogging the 12-foot-wide roadway as individuals halted to shoot at Rebel snipers in the opposite treetops.

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