General Hood, on Hill’s left, failing to move in time to give him the support expected, the whole of Jackson’s Corps was forced to retire.  But the tide at length begins to turn.  Meade is driven from the field.  Division after division was rushed to the front to meet and check Jackson’s steady advance.  Cannon now boom as never before heard, even the clear ringing of Pelham’s little howitzers, of Stuart’s Cavalry, could be heard above the thunder of the big guns, telling us that Stuart was putting his horse artillery in the balance.  His brave artillery leader was raking the enemy’s flank as they fell back on the river.  In our front new troops were being marshalled and put in readiness to swell the human holocaust before the fatal wall.

Franklin, Hancock, and Howard had made unsuccessful attempts upon this position, leaving their wounded and dead lying in heaps and wind rows from the old railroad cut to the suburbs.  Now Sturgis, of the Ninth Corps, was steadily advancing.  The Washington Artillery, from New Orleans, occupying the most conspicuous and favorable position on the right of the “Mayree House,” had exhausted their shot and shell.  The infantry in the road and behind the wall, Cobb’s and part of Kershaw’s, were nearly out of ammunition, and during the last charge had been using that of their dead and wounded.  Calls were made on all sides for “more ammunition,” both from the artillery and infantry.  Orders and details had been sent to the ordnance trains to bring supplies to the front.  But the orders had miscarried, or the trains were too far distant, for up to three o’clock no sign of replenishment was in sight.  The hearts of the exhausted men began to fail them—­the batteries silent, the infantry short of ammunition, while a long line of blue was making rapid strides towards us in front.

But now all hearts were made glad by the sudden rush of Alexander’s Battery coming to the relief of the Washington Artillery.  Down the Telegraph Road the battery came, their horses rearing and plunging, drivers burying the points of their spurs deep into the flanks of the foaming steeds; riders in front bending low upon the saddle bows to escape the shells that now filled the air, or plowing up the earth beneath the horses hoofs; the men on the caissons clinging with a death-like grip to retain their seats, the great heavy wheels spinning around like mad and bounding high in the air; while the officers riding at the side of this charging column of artillerists, shouted at the top of their voices, giving directions to the leaders.  Down this open and exposed stretch of road, up over the plateau, then wheel to the right, they make a rush through the gauntlet that separates them from the fort in which stood the Washington Artillery.  Over the dead and dying the horses leap and plunge, dragging the cannon and ammunition chests—­they enter the fort at a gallop.  Swinging into line, their brass pieces are now belching forth grape and canister into the ranks of the advancing columns.  All this takes place in less time than it takes to record it.  The bold dash and beautiful piece of evolution so excite the admiration of all who witnessed it, that a yell went up that drowns for a time the heavy baying of the siege guns on Stafford Heights.