pursuit, driving them back until they reach a line of reinforcements. Again the battle rages; now with redoubled lines they charge upon us, and the very earth shakes under our feet from the terrible discharge that comes from artillery massed in our front. Shells are shrieking in the air and bursting over our heads; great limbs are torn from the trees and fall with the broken shells about us. Soon our lines are weighed down with the terrible onslaught, and we are driven back over the same ground over which we had just come. Again our lines are rallied, and reformed, and strengthened; and again we charge to recover the lost ground. Four times that Sunday forenoon did our lines sweep down over that ground, and as many times were we driven back, until the ground was almost covered with friend and foe—the blue and the gray lying side by side, wounded, dying, and dead. Coming to us even in the heat and excitement of the battle, it was a terrible and sickening sight to see that battle field that day. As often as our lines were broken and driven back, so often did they rally and renew the attack, until again broken and forced back, turning and firing into the face of the foe as they went, until some soldier or officer would stop, and, with a brave and determined purpose, swear that there he would stand or die, as he turned his face once more to the enemy; and from that stand, so desperately and fearlessly made, calling on his comrades to “fall in,” our lines would, almost as if by magic, be built out to right and left. Those coming back would of their own volition halt and face about, and those who had passed beyond would, as soon as they found the line was reforming, hasten to rejoin it. But words would fail to tell of the many acts of heroism displayed on that field that day. How men fought singly from behind trees, in groops of from two to a dozen, desperately fighting, hoping against hope. The very desperation and fury with which these scattered few would fight—checking the enemy, detaining him, and giving us time to reform our broken lines—surpassed the stories of Napoleon’s old guard. Flanked by the enemy, our lines would change front under the murderous fire of a foe greatly superior in numbers, and again confront him in the new direction. From hastily constructed breastworks we fought now on this side, now on that. No man was there who did not realize that we were greatly outnumbered; yet no one thought of ultimate defeat. Chickamauga was a battle where officers and men were all and each alike—heroes of the noblest type. If never before, on that battle field of Chickamauga, men of the North and men of the South, Union and Confederate, learned that no imaginary lines separating North from South, or marking the boundary of States, make any difference in the spirit of courage, bravery, and daring of the American soldier, once he believes he is fighting for a principle, be that principle right or wrong. If one is more impetuous, the other will endure longer; if one is proud of his section, the other loves his whole country more. The two, united as they should be and will be, combine the elements and qualities of an army on whose banners might be emblazoned the one word “Invincible.”

On and on through all the morning and late into the afternoon had the battle raged, now advancing, now retreating, so evenly did the honors rest, that now both armies seemed willing to rest on their arms. Gradually the firing began to die away, and soon almost ceased on our portion of the line. Late in the afternoon we commenced a movement by the flank, but so confused had we become in our bearings that we did not realize that it was to be anything more than a mere change of position for a renewal of the conflict, when after a short while we found ourselves out of the noise and din of the battle field on the road filled with our troops, and marching with them down past Rossville toward Chattanooga.