ion was exhausted, I sent him notice, and as his regiment
marched to the crest the Third was withdrawn in as perfect order, I
think, as it ever moved from the drill-ground. The Fifteenth made a
gallant fight, and lost heavily both in officers and men; in fact, the
Lieutenant-Colonel and Major fell mortally wounded while it was moving
into position. Colonel Pope was also wounded, but not so seriously as to
prevent his continuing in command. The enemy getting now upon its right
and rear, the regiment was compelled to retire from the crest.

After consultation with Colonel Pope, it was determined to move our
regiments to the left, and form a line perpendicular to the one
originally taken, and thus give protection to the rear and right of the
troops on our left. The enemy observing this movement, and accepting it
as an indication of withdrawal, advanced rapidly toward us, when I about
faced my regiment, and ordered the men to fix bayonets and move forward
to meet him; but before we had proceeded many yards, I was overtaken by
Lieutenant Grover, of Colonel Lytle's staff, with an order to retire.

Turning into a ravine a few rods distant, we found an ammunition wagon,
and, under a dropping fire from the enemy, refilled our empty cartridge
boxes. Ascertaining while here that Colonel Lytle was certainly wounded,
and probably killed, I reported at once for duty to Colonel Len. Harris,
commanding Ninth Brigade of our division; but night soon thereafter put
an end to the engagement.

We bivouacked in a corn-field. The regiment had grown suddenly small. It
was a sorry night for us indeed. Every company had its long list of
killed, wounded, and missing. Over two hundred were gone. Nearly two
hundred, we felt quite sure, had fallen dead or disabled on the field.
Many eyes were in tears, and many hearts were bleeding for lost comrades
and dear friends. General Rousseau rides up in the darkness, and, as we
gather around him, says, in a voice tremulous with emotion: "Boys of the
Third, you stood in that withering fire like men of iron." They did.

They are thirsty and hungry. Few, however, think either of food or
water. Their thoughts are on the crest of that little hill, where
Cunard, McDougal, St. John, Starr, and scores of others lie cold in
death. They think of the wounded and suffering, and speak to each other
of the terrible ordeal through which they have passed, with bated breath
and in solemn tones, as if a laugh, or jest, or