We passed old Joe and his staff.

He has on a light or mole colored hat, with a black feather in it.

He is listening to the firing going on at the front.
One little cheer, and the very ground seems to shake with cheers.
Old Joe smiles as blandly as a modest maid, raises his hat in acknowledgement, makes a polite bow, and rides toward the firing.
Soon we are thrown into line of battle, in support of Polk's corps.
We belong to Hardee's corps.

Now Polk's corps advances to the attack, and Hardee's corps fifty or seventy-five yards in the rear.

A thug, thug, thug; the balls are decimating our men; we can't fire; Polk's corps is in front of us; should it give way, then it will be our time.