ront halts, and his countless
level barrels blaze back upon us. The Second Division is struggling in
battle. The rattling storm soon spreads to the right, and the blue
trefoils are vieing with the white. All along each hostile front, a
thousand yards, with narrowest space between, the volleys blaze and
roll; as thick the sound as when a summer hail-storm pelts the city
roofs; as thick the fire as when the incessant lightning fringes a
summer cloud. When the Rebel infantry had opened fire our batteries soon
became silent, and this without their fault, for they were foul by long
previous use. They were the targets of the concentrated Rebel bullets,
and some of them had expended all their canister. But they were not
silent before Rhorty was killed, Woodruff had fallen mortally wounded,
and Cushing, firing almost his last canister, had dropped dead among his
guns shot through the head by a bullet. The conflict is left to the
infantry alone. Unable to find my general when I had returned to the
crest after transmitting his message to General Meade, and while riding
in the search having witnessed the development of the fight, from the
first fire upon the left by the main lines until all of the two
divisions were furiously engaged, I gave up hunting as useless--I was
convinced General Gibbon could not be on the field; I left him mounted;
I could easily have found him now had he so remained--but now, save
myself, there was not a mounted officer near the engaged lines--and was
riding towards the right of the Second Division, with purpose to stop
there, as the most eligible position to watch the further progress of
the battle, there to be ready to take part according to my own notions
whenever and wherever occasion was presented. The conflict was
tremendous, but I had seen no wavering in all our line. Wondering how
long the Rebel ranks, deep though they were, could stand our sheltered
volleys, I had come near my destination, when--great heaven! were my
senses mad? The larger portion of Webb's brigade--my God, it was
true--there by the group of trees and the angles of the wall, was
breaking from the cover of their works, and, without orders or reason,
with no hand lifted to check them, was falling back, a fear-stricken
flock of confusion! The fate of Gettysburg hung upon a spider's single
thread! A great magnificent passion came on me at the instant, not one
that overpowers and confounds, but one that blanches the face and
sublimes