cut down, great holes dug in the ground where shells
had exploded, broken wagons, upset ambulances, wounded
and dead horses lining the whole way. The first
real scene of carnage was on the plateau of the Lewis
house. Here the Virginians lying behind the crest
of the hill as the enemy emerged from the woods on
the other side, gave them such a volley as to cause
a momentary repulse, but only to renew their attack
with renewed vigor. The battle here was desperate.
Major Wheat with his Louisianians fought around the
Henry house with a ferocity hardly equalled by any
troops during the war. Their peculiar uniform,
large flowing trousers with blue and white stripes
coming only to the knees, colored stockings, and a
loose bodice, made quite a picturesque appearance
and a good target for the enemy. These lay around
the house and in front in almost arm’s length
of each other. This position had been taken and
lost twice during the day. Beyond the house and
down the declivity on the other side, the enemy’s
dead told how destructive and deadly had been the Confederate
fire. On the other plateau where Jackson had formed
and where Bee and Bartow fell, the scene was sickening.
There lay friend and foe face to face in the cold
embrace of death. Only by the caps could one be
distinguished from the other, for the ghouls of the
battlefield had already been there to strip, rob,
and plunder. Beyond the ravine to the left is
where Hampton and his Legion fought, as well as the
troops of Kirby Smith and Elzey, of Johnston’s
army, who had come upon the scene just in time to
turn the tide of battle from defeat to victory.
On the right of Hampton was the Eighth and Second South
Carolina under Kershaw. From the Lewis house
to the Stone Bridge the dead lay in every direction.
The enemy in their precipitate flight gave the Confederates
ample opportunity to slay at will. The effects
of artillery here were dreadful. Rickett’s
Battery, the best in the North, had pushed their guns
far in advance of the infantry, and swept the field
with grape and canister. Here was a caisson blown
up by a shell from Kemper’s Battery, and the
havoc was frightful. Six beautiful horses, all
well caparisoned and still attached to the caisson,
all stretched as they had fallen, without so much as
a struggle. The drivers lay by the side of the
horses, one poor fellow underneath and badly mutilated.
To one side and near by lay the officer in command
and his horse, the noble animal lying as he had died
in the beautiful poise he must have been in when the
fatal shot struck him. His hind legs straightened
as if in the act of rearing, his forefeet in the air,
one before the other, the whole looking more like
a dismantled statue than the result of a battlefield.
Fragments of shells, broken guns, knapsacks, and baggage
were scattered over the plains. Details were
busy gathering up the wounded and burying the dead.
But from the looks of the field the task seemed difficult.
In the little clusters of bushes, behind trees, in