They are crowding us; our poor little handful of men are
being killed and wounded by scores. There is General George Maney badly
wounded and being carried to the rear, and there is Moon, of Fulcher's
battalion, killed dead in his tracks. We can't much longer hold our
position. A minnie ball passes through my Bible in my side pocket.
All at once we are ordered to open ranks. Here comes one piece of
artillery from a Mississippi battery, bouncing ten feet high, over brush
and logs and bending down little trees and saplings, under whip and spur,
the horses are champing the bits, and are muddied from head to foot.
Now, quick, quick; look, the Yankees have discovered the battery and
are preparing to charge it. Unlimber, horses and caisson to the rear.
No. 1 shrapnel, load, fire--boom, boom; load, ablouyat--boom, boom.
I saw Sam Seay fall badly wounded and carried to the rear. I stopped
firing to look at Sergeant Doyle how he handled his gun. At every
discharge it would bounce, and turn its muzzle completely to the rear,
when those old artillery soldiers would return it to its place--and it
seemed they fired a shot almost every ten seconds. Fire, men. Our
muskets roll and rattle, making music like the kettle and bass drum
combined.
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