the gun carriage, hurling it into junk
and piling all four horses on the ground. Their dying cries rang
pitifully through the smoke-wreathed woods. One horse lifted his head,
placed both fore feet on the ground and tried to rise. His hind legs
were only shreds of torn flesh. He neighed a long, quivering,
soul-piercing shriek of agony and a merciful officer drew his revolver
and killed him.

A cannoneer lay by this horse's side with both his legs hopelessly
crushed so high in the thick flesh of the thighs there was no hope. He
was moaning horribly. He turned his eyes in agony to the officer who had
shot the horse:

"Please, Captain--for the love of God--shoot me, too, I can't live----"

The Captain shook his head.

"Have mercy on me--for Jesus' sake--kill me--you were kind to my
horse--can't you do as much for me?"

The Captain turned away in anguish. He couldn't even send for morphine.
The South had no more morphine. The blockade's iron hand was on her
hospitals now.

Ned fought for half an hour behind a tree. Twice the bullets striking
the hark knocked pieces into his eyes. He was sure at least fifty Minie
balls struck it.

A bald-headed Colonel rushed by at double quick leading a fresh regiment
into action to support them. The hell of battle was not so hot the
Southern soldier had lost his sense of humor. They were glad to see this
dashing old fighter and they told him so in no uncertain way.

"Hurrah for Baldy!"

"Sick 'em, Baldy--sick 'em----"

"I'll bet on old man Baldy every time----"

"Hurrah for the bald-headed man!"

The Colonel paid no attention to their shouts. The flash of his muskets
in the deepening twilight turned the tide in their favor. The big guns
had been unlimbered and pulled back deeper into the blue lines.

John Vaughan's line was swung to support the charge of Hooker's old
division which first halted the rush of Jackson's men. In the field
beyond the Chancellor House stood a huge straw stack. As the regiment
rushed by at double quick the Colonel spied a panic-stricken officer
crouching in terror behind the pile.

The Colonel slapped him across the shoulders with his sword:

"What sort of a place is this for you, sir?"

Through chattering teeth came the trembling response:

"W-w-hy, m-my God, do you think the bullets can come through?"

The Colonel threw up his hands in rage and pressed on with his men.

A wagon loaded with entrenching tools, on which sat half a dozen negro