r poor little handful of men are
being killed and wounded by scores. There is General George Maney badly
wounded and being carried to the rear, and there is Moon, of Fulcher's
battalion, killed dead in his tracks. We can't much longer hold our
position. A minnie ball passes through my Bible in my side pocket.
All at once we are ordered to open ranks. Here comes one piece of
artillery from a Mississippi battery, bouncing ten feet high, over brush
and logs and bending down little trees and saplings, under whip and spur,
the horses are champing the bits, and are muddied from head to foot.
Now, quick, quick; look, the Yankees have discovered the battery and
are preparing to charge it. Unlimber, horses and caisson to the rear.
No. 1 shrapnel, load, fire--boom, boom; load, ablouyat--boom, boom.
I saw Sam Seay fall badly wounded and carried to the rear. I stopped
firing to look at Sergeant Doyle how he handled his gun. At every
discharge it would bounce, and turn its muzzle completely to the rear,
when those old artillery soldiers would return it to its place--and it
seemed they fired a shot almost every ten seconds. Fire, men. Our
muskets roll and rattle, making music like the kettle and bass drum
combined. They are checked; we see them fall back to the woods, and
night throws her mantle over the scene. We fell back now, and had to
strip and wade Chickamauga river. It was up to our armpits, and was as
cold as charity. We had to carry our clothes across on the points of
our bayonets. Fires had been kindled every few yards on the other side,
and we soon got warmed up again.

RINGGOLD GAP

I had got as far as Ringgold Gap, when I had unconsciously fallen asleep
by a fire, it being the fourth night that I had not slept a wink.
Before I got to this fire, however, a gentleman whom I never saw in my
life--because it was totally dark at the time--handed me a letter from
the old folks at home, and a good suit of clothes. He belonged to
Colonel Breckinridge's cavalry, and if he ever sees these lines, I wish
to say to him, "God bless you, old boy." I had lost every blanket and
vestige of clothing, except those I had on, at Missionary Ridge. I laid
down by the fire and went to sleep, but how long I had slept I knew not,
when I felt a rough hand grab me and give me a shake, and the fellow said,
"Are you going to sleep here, and let the Yankees cut your throat?"
I opened my eyes, and asked, "Who are you?" He politely a