soldier, when he hears the battle raging with all the might of the furies about him, when he can now and then catch the sound of the distant shouts that tell that the charge is being made, and can hear above the shouts the rattling, tearing, shrieking sound of the volleys of musketry, and the shot and shell and canister of the artillery that tells too well that the charge is met, and that great gaps are being made in the lines; that men and comrades are being maimed, and wounded, and killed. In such moments as these, when you see and hear, but are not a part of the battle, men grow pale and lose their firmness, their nerve; then it is they realize that war is terrible. They are hungry, but they cannot eat; they are tired but they cannot sit down; they lay prone upon the ground, but that is worse than standing, and they rise again; you speak to them, and they answer you as one who is half asleep; they laugh, but it is a laugh that has no joy in it. The infantrymen stay close to their muskets; the artillerymen, drivers, and gunners stand close to their posts of duty in a terrible, fearful state of nervous unrest. These men whom you thus see on that fearful September afternoon are not lacking in all true soldierly qualities; their bravery had been tested on other fields—at Donelson, at Shiloh, at Perryville, and at Stone River they met the enemy in the hottest of the battle with all the bravery and firmness of the Roman, and now when the time shall come for them to be ordered to the aid of their comrades, they will not be found wanting. Thus hour after hour has passed for us in this fearful state of anxiety and suspense. No tidings from the front; we only know that the battle is fearful, is terrible.

Noonday has passed, when suddenly from out the woods to our front and left onto the open field, dashes an officer, his horse urged to its greatest speed toward our command. The men see him coming, and in an instant they are aroused to the greatest interest. “There comes orders” are the words that pass from lip to lip along that line. Without commands the lines are formed behind the gun stacks; the cannoneers stand by their guns; the drivers stand with hand on rein and foot in stirrup, ready to mount. How quick, how great the change at the prospect of freedom from the suspense of the day. The eye lights up, the arm again grows strong, and the nerves are again growing steady; every head is bent forward to catch, if possible, the first news from the front, and to hear the orders that are to be given. All now are roused: there is to be no more suspense; it is to be action from now and on until the battle shall close. Nearer and nearer comes the rider; now you catch his features, and can see the fearful earnestness that is written in every line of the face. He bends forward as he rides, in such haste he is. The horse he rides seems to have caught the spirit of the rider, and horse and rider tell to the experienced soldier that there is to be work for us; that the urgency is great, and that the peril is imminent.

How much there is of life, of the soldier’s life, that cannot be painted on canvas or described in words; it is the inexpressible part—the face, the eye, the swaying of the body, the gesture of the hand, the movement of the head, as the officer, the soldier, feels that his comrades are in deepest peril, and that unless help comes, and comes quickly, all hope is gone. He speaks not a word, but his appearance speaks in thunder tones. Companions, you, and each of you, have seen just such times and such faces. Such was the face, and such the action of that staff officer that afternoon of September 19, 1863; and every soldier, as he saw him, read that face and form as though it were an open book—yes, and read it in all its awful, dreadful meaning—and, reading, realized their full duty. He reaches our line, and is met by our brigade commander, Col. Geo. F. Dick, as anxious to receive the orders as he is to give them. The command comes in