een idle scarcely a day.
From that day to the 1st of June it had been one continual battle. If
the infantry was not engaged, it was the artillery that kept hammering
away, while Stuart's Cavalry hovered around the flanks and rear of the
enemy, ready at a moment to swoop like an eagle upon his prey. We
were continually under arms, either on a forced march night and day,
checking the enemy here, baffling him there, driving back his advance
lines, or assaulting his skirmishers. At night the sound of the
enemy's drums mingled with that of our own, while the crack of the
rifles in the sharpshooters' pits was almost continuous. Early on the
morning of June 1st Kershaw's Brigade was aroused and put on the march
at a rapid pace in a southeasterly direction.

When nearing the old battlefield of Cold Harbor the men began to snuff
the scent of battle. Cartridge boxes were examined, guns unslung, and
bayonets fixed, while the ranks were being rapidly closed up. After
some delay and confusion, a line of battle was formed along an old
roadway. Colonel Keitt had never before handled such a body of troops
in the open field, and his pressing orders to find the enemy only
added perplexity to his other difficulties. Every man in ranks knew
that he was being led by one of the most gifted and gallant men in the
South, but every old soldier felt and saw at a glance his
inexperience and want of self-control. Colonel Keitt showed no want of
aggressiveness and boldness, but he was preparing for battle like in
the days of Alva or Turenne, and to cut his way through like a storm
center.

As soon as the line was formed the order of advance was given, with
never so much as a skirmish line in front. Keitt led his men like
a knight of old--mounted upon his superb iron-gray, and looked the
embodiment of the true chevalier that he was. Never before in our
experience had the brigade been led in deliberate battle by its
commander on horseback, and it was perhaps Colonel Keitt's want of
experience that induced him to take this fatal step. Across a large
old field the brigade swept towards a densely timbered piece of
oakland, studded with undergrowth, crowding and swaying in irregular
lines, the enemy's skirmishers pounding away at us as we advanced.
Colonel Keitt was a fine target for the sharpshooters, and fell before
the troops reached the timber, a martyr to the inexorable laws of the
army rank. Into the dark recesses of the woods the troops plunged,