ivisions of eighteen
thousand men spread out in the woods and made ready for the shock.

The sun burst through the gathering clouds for a moment and the edge of
the woods flashed with polished steel.

A Federal battery dashed into position and placed one of its big
black-wheeled guns in the front yard of a little white-washed farmhouse.
The farmer's wife faced the commander with indignant fury:

"Take that thing outen my front yard!"

The dust-and sweat-covered men paid no attention. They quickly sunk the
wheels into the ground and piled their shells in place for work.

The old woman stamped her foot and shouted again: "Take that thing away
I tell you--I won't have it here!"

The captain seized his lanyard, trained his piece and the big black lips
roared.

With a scream of terror the woman covered her ears, rushed inside and
slammed the door. They found her torn and mangled body there after the
battle. An answering shell had crashed through the roof and exploded.

Sherman's men, standing in the woods before the stone bridge waiting
orders, saw the white and blue fog of battle rise above the tree tops
and felt the earth tremble beneath their feet.

And then came to John's ears the first full crash of musketry fire in
close deadly range. As company, regiment and brigade joined in volley
after volley, it was like the sound of the continuous ripping of heavy
canvas, magnified on the scale of a thousand. As the storm cloud swept
over the smoke-choked field the rattle of musketry sounded as if an
angry God rode somewhere in their fiery depths, and with giant hand was
ripping the heavens open!

An hour passed and a shout of triumph swept the Federal lines. They
charged and drove the Confederate forces back a half mile from their
first stand. There was a lull--a strange silence brooded over the
flaming woods and the guns opened from their new position--the
artillery's deep thunder and the ripping crash of muskets. Another hour
and another wild shout of victory. They had driven the Southerners three
quarters of a mile further.

The shouts suddenly stopped. They had struck something.

The grim dust-covered figure of a Southern Brigadier General on a little
sorrel horse had barred the way. His bulging forehead with its sombre
blue eyes hung ominously over the pommel of his saddle.

General Bee, of South Carolina, rallying his shattered, broken brigade,
pointed his sword to the strange figure and shouted to his men: