An answering shell had crashed through the roof and exploded.
Sherman's men, standing in the woods before the stone bridge waiting
orders, saw the white and blue fog of battle rise above the tree tops
and felt the earth tremble beneath their feet.
And then came to John's ears the first full crash of musketry fire in
close deadly range. As company, regiment and brigade joined in volley
after volley, it was like the sound of the continuous ripping of heavy
canvas, magnified on the scale of a thousand. As the storm cloud swept
over the smoke-choked field the rattle of musketry sounded as if an
angry God rode somewhere in their fiery depths, and with giant hand was
ripping the heavens open!
An hour passed and a shout of triumph swept the Federal lines. They
charged and drove the Confederate forces back a half mile from their
first stand. There was a lull--a strange silence brooded over the
flaming woods and the guns opened from their new position--the
artillery's deep thunder and the ripping crash of muskets. Another hour
and another wild shout of victory. They had driven the Southerners three
quarters of a mile further.
The shouts suddenly stopped. They had struck something.
The grim dust-covered figure of a Southern Brigadier General on a little
sorrel horse had barred the way. His bulging forehead with its sombre
blue eyes hung ominously over the pommel of his saddle.
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