“And we started.  Heavens, how they did let into us, as we came up into range.  They had ten pieces of artillery, and more men behind the breastworks than we had in line, and the fire they poured on us was simply withering.  We walked across the hundreds of dead and dying of the regular brigade, and at every step our own men fell down among them.  General Baud’s horse was shot down, and the General thrown far over his head, but he jumped up and ran alongside of us.  Major Wilson, our regimental commander, fell mortally wounded; Lieutenant Kirk was killed, and also Captain Stopfard, Adjutant General of the brigade.  Lieutenants Cobb and Mitchell dropped with wounds that proved fatal in a few days.  Captain Ugan lost an arm, one-third of the enlisted men fell, but we went straight ahead, the grape and the musketry becoming worse every step, until we gained the edge of the hill, where we were checked a minute by the brush, which the Rebels had fixed up in the shape of abattis.  Just then a terrible fire from a new direction, our left, swept down the whole length of our line.  The Colonel of the Seventeenth New York—­as gallant a man as ever lived saw the new trouble, took his regiment in on the run, and relieved us of this, but he was himself mortally wounded.  If our boys were half-crazy before, they were frantic now, and as we got out of the entanglement of the brush, we raised a fearful yell and ran at the works.  We climbed the sides, fired right down into the defenders, and then began with the bayonet and sword.  For a few minutes it was simply awful.  On both sides men acted like infuriated devils.  They dashed each other’s brains out with clubbed muskets; bayonets were driven into men’s bodies up to the muzzle of the gun; officers ran their swords through their opponents, and revolvers, after being emptied into the faces of the Rebels, were thrown with desperate force into the ranks.  In our regiment was a stout German butcher named Frank Fleck.  He became so excited that he threw down his sword, and rushed among the Rebels with his bare fists, knocking down a swath of them.  He yelled to the first Rebel he met: 

“Py Gott, I’ve no patience mit you,’ and knocked him sprawling.  He caught hold of the commander of the Rebel Brigade, and snatched him back over the works by main strength.  Wonderful to say, he escaped unhurt, but the boys will probably not soon let him hear the last of

“Py Gott, I’ve no patience mit you.’

“The Tenth Kentucky, by the queerest luck in the world, was matched against the Rebel Ninth Kentucky.  The commanders of the two regiments were brothers-in-law, and the men relatives, friends, acquaintances and schoolmates.  They hated each other accordingly, and the fight between them was more bitter, if possible, than anywhere else on the line.  The Thirty-Eighth Ohio and Seventy-fourth Indiana put in some work that was just magnificent.  We hadn’t time to look at it then, but the dead and wounded piled up after the fight told the story.