The line had not yet formed before a perfect hail of bullets came flying overhead and through our ranks, but not a man moved, only to allow the stampeded troops of Heath’s and Wilcox’s to pass to the rear.  It seems that these troops had fought the day before, and lay upon the battlefield with the impression that they would be relieved before day.  They had not reformed their lines, nor replenished their ammunition boxes, nor made any pretention towards protecting their front by any kind of works.  The enemy, who had likewise occupied their ground of the day before, had reformed their lines, strengthened their position by breastworks—­all this within two hundred yards of the unsuspecting Confederates.  This fault lay in a misunderstanding of orders, or upon the strong presumption that Longstreet would be up before the hour of combat.  Hancock had ordered his advance at sunrise, and after a feeble defense by Heath’s and Wilcox’s skirmish line, the enemy burst upon the unsuspecting Confederates, while some were cooking a hasty meal, others still asleep—­all unprepared for this thunderbolt that fell in their midst.  While forming his lines of battle, and while bullets were flying all around, General Kershaw came dashing down in front of his column, his eyes flashing fire, sitting his horse like a centaur—­that superb style as Joe Kershaw only could—­and said in passing us, “Now, my old brigade.  I expect you to do your duty.”  In all my long experience, in war and peace, I never saw such a picture as Kershaw and his war-horse made in riding down in front of his troops at the Wilderness.  It seemed an inspiration to every man in line, especially his old brigade, who knew too well that their conduct to-day would either win or lose him his Major General’s spurs, and right royally did he gain them.  The columns were not yet in proper order, but the needs so pressing to check the advance of the enemy, that a forward movement was ordered, and the lines formed up as the troops marched.

The second moved forward on the left of the plank road, in support of a battery stationed there, and which was drawing a tremendous fire upon the troops on both sides of the road.  Down the gentle slope the brigade marched, over and under the tangled shrubbery and dwarf sapplings, while a withering fire was being poured into them by as yet an unseen enemy.  Men fell here and there, officers urging ion their commands and ordering them to “hold their fire.”  When near the lower end of the declivity, the shock came.  Just in front of us, and not forty yards away, lay the enemy.  The long line of blue could be seen under the ascending smoke of thousands of rifles; the red flashes of their guns seemed to blaze in our very faces.  Now the battle was on in earnest.  The roar of Kershaw’s guns mingled with those of the enemy.  Longstreet had met his old antagonist of Round Top, Hancock, the Northern hero, of Gettysburg.  The roar of the small arms, mingled with the thunder