of the
time and their own infamy. Their appreciation of duty and honor seemed
to have been forgotten; neither hate, ambition, nor patriotism could
force them back; but when the columns of mounted provosts charged upon
them, they sullenly resumed their muskets and returned to the field. At
the foot of the hill to which I have referred the ammunition wagons lay
in long lines, with the horses' heads turned from the fight. A little
beyond stood the ambulances; and between both sets of vehicles,
fatigue-parties were going and returning to and from the field. At the
top of the next hill sat many of the Federal batteries, and I was
admonished by the shriek of shells that passed over my head and burst
far behind me, that I was again to look upon carnage and share the
perils of the soldier.

The question at once occurred to me: Can I stand fire? Having for some
months penned daily paragraphs relative to death, courage, and victory,
I was surprised to find that those words were now unusually significant.
"Death" was a syllable to me before; it was a whole dictionary now.
"Courage" was natural to every man a week ago; it was rarer than genius
to-day. "Victory" was the first word in the lexicon of youth yesterday
noon; "discretion" and "safety" were at present of infinitely more
consequence. I resolved, notwithstanding these qualms, to venture to the
hill-top: but at every step flitting projectiles took my breath. The
music of the battle-field, I have often thought, should be introduced
in opera. Not the drum, the bugle, or the fife, though these are
thrilling, after their fashion; but the music of modern ordnance and
projectile, the beautiful whistle of the minie-ball, the howl of shell
that makes unearthly havoc with the air, the whiz-z-z of solid shot, the
chirp of bullets, the scream of grape and canister, the yell of immense
conical cylinders, that fall like redhot stoves and spout burning coals.

All these passed over, beside, beneath, before, behind me. I seemed to
be an invulnerable something at whom some cunning juggler was tossing
steel, with an intent to impinge upon, not to strike him. I rode like
one with his life in his hand, and, so far as I remember, seemed to
think of nothing. No fear, _per se_; no regret; no adventure; only
expectancy. It was the expectancy of a shot, a choking, a loud cry, a
stiffening, a dead, dull tumble, a quiver, and--blindness. But with this
was mingled a sort of enjoyment, like that of th