Forward, men! And the blood spurts in a perfect jet from the dead and wounded.

The earth is red with blood.

It runs in streams, making little rivulets as it flows.

Occasionally there was a little lull in the storm of battle, as the men were loading their guns, and for a few moments it seemed as if night tried to cover the scene with her mantle.
The death-angel shrieks and laughs and old Father Time is busy with his sickle, as he gathers in the last harvest of death, crying, More, more, more! while his rapacious maw is glutted with the slain.
But the skirmish line being deployed out, extending a little wider than the battle did--passing through a thicket of small locusts, where Brown, orderly sergeant of Company B, was killed--we advanced on toward the breastworks, on and on.

I had made up my mind to die--felt glorious.
We pressed forward until I heard the terrific roar of battle open on our right.