Men were lying in every conceivable position; the dead lying with their eyes wide open, the wounded begging piteously for help, and some waving their hats and shouting to us to go forward.

It all seemed to me a dream; I seemed to be in a sort of haze, when siz, siz, siz, the minnie balls from the Yankee line began to whistle around our ears, and I thought of the Irishman when he said, "Sure enough, those fellows are shooting bullets!" Down would drop first one fellow and then another, either killed or wounded, when we were ordered to charge bayonets.

I had been feeling mean all the morning as if I had stolen a sheep, but when the order to charge was given, I got happy.

I felt happier than a fellow does when he professes religion at a big Methodist camp-meeting.

I shouted.