There were frequent crises in the struggle, that at some times gave encouragement, but never hope.  Once a determined onset was made from the East, and was met by the equally determined resistance of nearly our whole force.  Our fire was so galling that a large number of our foes crowded into a house on a knoll, and making loopholes in its walls, began replying to us pretty sharply.  We sent word to our faithful artillerists, who trained the gun upon the house.  The first shell screamed over the roof, and burst harmlessly beyond.  We suspended fire to watch the next.  It crashed through the side; for an instant all was deathly still; we thought it had gone on through.  Then came a roar and a crash; the clapboards flew off the roof, and smoke poured out; panic-stricken Rebels rushed from the doors and sprang from the windows —­like bees from a disturbed hive; the shell had burst among the confined mass of men inside!  We afterwards heard that twenty-five were killed there.

At another time a considerable force of rebels gained the cover of a fence in easy range of our main force.  Companies L and K were ordered to charge forward on foot and dislodge them.  Away we went, under a fire that seemed to drop a man at every step.  A hundred yards in front of the Rebels was a little cover, and behind this our men lay down as if by one impulse.  Then came a close, desperate duel at short range.  It was a question between Northern pluck and Southern courage, as to which could stand the most punishment.  Lying as flat as possible on the crusted snow, only raising the head or body enough to load and aim, the men on both sides, with their teeth set, their glaring eyes fastened on the foe, their nerves as tense as tightly-drawn steel wires, rained shot on each other as fast as excited hands could crowd cartridges into the guns and discharge them.

Not a word was said.

The shallower enthusiasm that expresses itself in oaths and shouts had given way to the deep, voiceless rage of men in a death grapple.  The Rebel line was a rolling torrent of flame, their bullets shrieked angrily as they flew past, they struck the snow in front of us, and threw its cold flakes in faces that were white with the fires of consuming hate; they buried themselves with a dull thud in the quivering bodies of the enraged combatants.

Minutes passed; they seemed hours.

Would the villains, scoundrels, hell-hounds, sons of vipers never go?

At length a few Rebels sprang up and tried to fly.  They were shot down instantly.

Then the whole line rose and ran!

The relief was so great that we jumped to our feet and cheered wildly, forgetting in our excitement to make use of our victory by shooting down our flying enemies.