There seemed to me something indescribably ludicrous in the advance of this handful of men upon an army, albeit with their left flank protected by a forest.  It does not so impress me now.  They were the exposed flanks of three lines of infantry, each half a mile in length.  In a moment our gunners had grappled with the nearest pieces, swung them half round, and were pouring streams of canister into the invaded wood.  The infantry rose in masses, springing into line.  Our threatened regiments stood like a wall, their loaded rifles at “ready,” their bayonets hanging quietly in the scabbards.  The right wing of my own regiment was thrown slightly backward to threaten the flank of the assault.  The battered brigade away to the rear pulled itself together.

Then the storm burst.  A great gray cloud seemed to spring out of the forest into the faces of the waiting battalions.  It was received with a crash that made the very trees turn up their leaves.  For one instant the assailants paused above their dead, then struggled forward, their bayonets glittering in the eyes that shone behind the smoke.  One moment, and those unmoved men in blue would be impaled.  What were they about?  Why did they not fix bayonets?  Were they stunned by their own volley?  Their inaction was maddening!  Another tremendous crash!—­the rear rank had fired!  Humanity, thank Heaven! is not made for this, and the shattered gray mass drew back a score of paces, opening a feeble fire.  Lead had scored its old-time victory over steel; the heroic had broken its great heart against the commonplace.  There are those who say that it is sometimes otherwise.

All this had taken but a minute of time, and now the second Confederate line swept down and poured in its fire.  The line of blue staggered and gave way; in those two terrific volleys it seemed to have quite poured out its spirit.  To this deadly work our reserve regiment now came up with a run.  It was surprising to see it spitting fire with never a sound, for such was the infernal din that the ear could take in no more.  This fearful scene was enacted within fifty paces of our toes, but we were rooted to the ground as if we had grown there.  But now our commanding officer rode from behind us to the front, waved his hand with the courteous gesture that says apres vous, and with a barely audible cheer we sprang into the fight.  Again the smoking front of gray receded, and again, as the enemy’s third line emerged from its leafy covert, it pushed forward across the piles of dead and wounded to threaten with protruded steel.  Never was seen so striking a proof of the paramount importance of numbers.  Within an area of three hundred yards by fifty there struggled for front places no fewer than six regiments; and the accession of each, after the first collision, had it not been immediately counterpoised, would have turned the scale.