The grey sharpshooters, concealed on the other shore, began to fire
across the water through the fog. The sound was strangely magnified. The
single crack of a musket seemed as loud as a cannon.
The work went quickly. The bullets flew wide of the mark. The fog
suddenly lifted and a steady fusillade from the men hidden in the hills
of Fredericksburg began to pick off the bridge builders with cruel
accuracy. At times every man was down. New men were rushed to take their
places and they fell.
The signal was given to the artillery and a hundred and forty-seven
great guns suddenly began to sweep the doomed town. Houses crumpled like
egg-shells and fires began to blaze.
The sharpshooters fell back. The bridges were laid and the grand army of
a hundred and thirteen thousand began to pour across. The caissons, with
their huge black, rifled-barrel guns rumbling along the resounding
boards in a continuous roar like distant thunder.
On the southern shore the deep mud cut hills put every team to the test
of its strength and the utmost skill of their drivers. Hundreds of men
were in the mud at the wheels and still they would stick.
And then the patient heavens above heard the voices of army teamsters in
plain and ornamental swearing! Such profanity was probably never heard
on this earth before and it may well be hoped will not be heard again.
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