ught, won, and lost; sometimes company against company, then
regiment against regiment, and sometimes brigades would be pitted
against rival brigades. When the South Carolinians were against the
Georgians, or the two Georgia brigades against Kershaw's and the
Mississippi brigades, then the blows would fall fast and furious.
The fiercest fight and the hardest run of my life was when Kershaw's
Brigade, under Colonel Rutherford, of the Third, challenged and fought
Cobb's Georgians. Colonel Rutherford was a great lover of the sport,
and wherever a contest was going on he would be sure to take a hand.
On the day alluded to Colonel Rutherford martialed his men by
the beating of drums and the bugle's blast; officers headed their
companies, regiments formed, with flags flying, then when all was
ready the troops were marched to the brow of a hill, or rather half
way down the hill, and formed line of battle, there to await the
coming of the Georgians. They were at that moment advancing across the
plain that separated the two camps. The men built great pyramids
of snow balls in their rear, and awaited the assault of the fast
approaching enemy. Officers cheered the men and urged them to stand
fast and uphold the "honor of their State," while the officers on the
other side besought their men to sweep all before them off the field.

The men stood trembling with cold and emotion, and the officers with
fear, for the officer who was luckless enough as to fall into the
hands of a set of "snow revelers," found to his sorrow that his bed
was not one of roses. When the Georgians were within one hundred feet
the order was given to "fire." Then shower after shower of the fleecy
balls filled the air. Cheer after cheer went up from the assaulters
and the assaultant--now pressed back by the flying balls, then to the
assault again. Officers shouted to the men, and they answered with a
"yell." When some, more bold than the rest, ventured too near, he was
caught and dragged through the lines, while his comrades made frantic
efforts to rescue him. The poor prisoner, now safely behind the lines,
his fate problematical, as down in the snow he was pulled, now on his
face, next on his back, then swung round and round by his heels--all
the while snow being pushed down his back or in his bosom, his eyes,
ears, and hair thoroughly filled with the "beautiful snow." After a
fifteen minutes' struggle, our lines gave way. The fierce looks of a
tall, muscular,