felt his loss. He was one of those officers
whose fine appearance caused men to stop and look at him twice before
passing. The many fine officers, Captains as well as Lieutenants, that
were killed or wounded here made a death and disabled roll, from the
effects of which the brigade never fully recovered. Then the whole
army mourned the supposed death of the gallant and dashing Texan,
General Hood, but he lived to yet write his name in indelible letters
on the roll-of fame among the many officers of distinction in the Army
of Tennessee.

In our first general advance in the morning, as the regiment reached
the brow of the hill, just before striking the enemy's breastworks,
my company and the other color company, being crowded together by
the pressure of the flanks on either side, became for the moment
a tangled, disorganized mass. A sudden discharge of grape from the
enemy's batteries, as well as from their sharpshooters posted behind
trees, threw us in greater confusion, and many men were shot down
unexpectedly. A Sergeant in my company, T.C. Nunnamaker, received
a fearful wound in the abdomen. Catching my hand while falling, he
begged to be carried off. "Oh! for God's sake, don't leave me here to
bleed to death or have my life trampled out! Do have me carried off!"
But the laws of war are inexorable, and none could leave the ranks to
care for the wounded, and those whose duty it was to attend to such
matters were unfortunately too often far in the rear, seeking places
of safety for themselves, to give much thought or concern to the
bleeding soldiers. Before our lines were properly adjusted, the
gallant Sergeant was beyond the aid of anyone. He had died from
internal hemorrhage. The searchers of the battlefield, those gatherers
of the wounded and dead, witness many novel and pathetic scenes.

Louis Spillers, a private in my company, a poor, quiet, and unassuming
fellow, who had left a wife and little children at home when he donned
the uniform of gray, had his thigh broken, just to the left of where
the Sergeant fell. Spillers was as "brave as the bravest," and made no
noise when he received the fatal wound. As the command swept forward
down the little dell, he was of course left behind. Dragging himself
along to the shade of a small tree, he sought shelter behind its
trunk, protecting his person as well as he could from the bullets of
the enemy posted on the ridge in front, and waited developments. When
the litter-bea