his long gray hair, falling
almost to his shoulders, waves in the evening breeze. He is an iron man,
and he leads iron men. The Rebel cannon cut them through with solid
shot, shells burst above and around them, with loud explosions and
terrifying shrieks from the flying fragments, men drop from the ranks,
or are whirled into the air torn and mangled. There are sudden gaps, but
not a man flinches. They look not towards the rear, but towards the
front. There are the fallen trees, the hill, the line of two thousand
muskets poised between the logs, the cannon thundering from the height
beyond. There is no whispering in those solid ranks, no loud talking,
nothing but the "Steady! steady!" of the officers. Their hearts beat
great throbs. Their nerves are steel, their muscles iron. They grasp
their muskets with the grip of tigers. Before them rides their General,
his cap upon his sword, his long hair streaming like a banner in the
wind. The color-bearer, waving the stars and stripes, marches by his
side.

They move across the meadow. All around them is the deafening roar of
the conflict. Cavender is behind them, Cook is upon their left, the
enemy is in front, and Wallace away upon their right. They reach the
fallen trees at the foot of the hill. The pile of logs above them bursts
into flame. A deadly storm, more terrible than the fiercest winter
blast, sweeps down the slope into their faces. There are lightning
flashes and thunderbolts from the hill above. Men drop from their
places, to lie forever still among the tangled branches. But their
surviving comrades do not falter. On,--on,--creeping, crawling, climbing
over the obstructions, unterrified, undaunted, with all the energy of
life centred in one effort; like a tornado they sweep up the
slope,--into the line of fire, into the hissing storm, up to the logs,
into the cloud, leaping like tigers, thrusting the bayonet home upon the
foe. The Rebels reel, stagger, tumble, run!

"HURRA----H!"

It is a wild, prolonged, triumphant shout, like the blast of a trumpet.
They plant their banners on the works, and fire their volleys into the
retreating foe. Stone's battery gallops over the meadow, over the logs,
up the hill, the horses leaping and plunging as if they, too, knew that
victory was hanging in the scale. The gunners spring from their seats,
wheel their pieces and throw their shells, an enfilading fire, into the
upper works.

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" rings through the f