charge and counter-charge swept the tide of battle to
and fro--at what terrible cost, the killed and wounded, strewing the
ground like leaves in the forest, made answer. Twelve thousand men lay
dead on the field when the battle ended, and one thousand prisoners were
taken, besides nine thousand stand of arms.

Although this battle seems to have been well planned by General
Burnside, a want of capacity to meet unforeseen emergencies doubtless
contributed to his defeat. He committed a fatal error at a critical
moment, by sending General Franklin an equivocal _recommendation_,
instead of an _order_ to attack the enemy in force. The enemy, however,
though having nobly held their ground, could not boast of having
advanced their lines by so much as a foot. There were, indeed, but few
even of the Confederate officers, who knew they had been victorious, and
the amazement of their army was beyond description when the gray dawn of
the fourteenth of December revealed the deserted camps of the Federals,
who had withdrawn their entire command during the night to the north
side of the river.

Had General Franklin brought his men into action, as he should have
done, at the critical moment when the issue of the fight was trembling
in the balance, the fortunes of this day would have terminated
differently. Had the splendid divisions of brave Phil. Kearney or
"Fighting Joe Hooker" been ordered into the arena, and lent the
inspiration of their presence to this hour of need, the scales of
victory would have turned in an opposite direction.

The "might have beens" always grow thickly on the soil of defeat.

Among the lamented dead of this day's havoc, no loss was more keenly
felt than that of Major-General George Dashiel Bayard. He was standing
among a group of officers around the trunk of an old tree, near the
headquarters of Generals Franklin and Smith, when the enemy suddenly
began to shell a battery near by, and one of the deadly missiles struck
this gallant leader. He was carried to the field-hospital, mortally
wounded.

Quietly turning to the surgeon who examined his ghastly wounds, he asked
"if there was any hope." On being informed that there was none, he
proceeded with undisturbed composure, and without a murmur of pain, to
dictate three letters. One of these was to his affianced bride. This
day, it was said, had been appointed for his wedding. The time-hands
marked the hour of eight when this letter was finished, and, as he