He was too deadly angry now for
that.
A puff of wind lifted the clouds and the blue men could be seen leaping
about their guns. They looked like giants in the smoke fog. Again he
fired and loaded, fired and loaded with clock-like, even steady, hand.
It was tiresome this ramming an old-fashioned muzzle-loading musket
lying flat on the ground. But with each round he was becoming more and
more expert in handling the gun. His mouth was black with powder from
tearing the paper ends of the cartridges. The sulphurous taste of the
powder was in his mouth.
From the centre of the field rose the awful Confederate yell again. A
regiment of Georgians, led by Gordon were charging. Waiting again for
the smoke to clear in front Ned could see the grey waves spread out and
caught the sharp word of command as the daring young officers threw
their naked swords toward the sky crying:
"Forward!"
And then they met the storm. From grim, black lips on the hill crest
came the answer to their yell--three hundred and forty mighty guns were
singing an oratorio of Death and Hell in chorus now from those heights.
Half the men seemed to fall at a single crash and still the line closed
up and rushed steadily on, firing and loading, firing and
loading,--running and staggering, then rallying and pressing on again.
Pages:
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253