The blue lines were mowed down in swaths as though the giant figure of
Death had suddenly swung his scythe from the fog banks in the sky.
Again and again came those awful volleys of musketry and artillery
cross-firing on the rushing lines. The men staggered and recovered,
reformed and charged again over the dead bodies of their comrades
carrying the crest for a moment. They captured a flag and a handful of
prisoners only to be driven back down the hill with losses more
frightful in retreat than when they breasted the storm.
In the centre the tragedy was repeated with results even more terrible.
As the charging lines fell back, staggering, bleeding and cut to pieces,
fresh brigades threw down their knapsacks, fixed their bayonets and
charged through their own melting ranks into the jaws of Death to fall
back in their turn.
With a mighty shout the blue line swept across the railroad, took the
ditches at the point of the bayonet and captured two hundred grey
prisoners. But only for a moment. From the supporting line rang the
rebel yell and they were hurled back, shattered and cut to pieces.
These retreats were veritable shambles of slaughter. The curved lines on
the hills raking them with their deadly accurate cross-fire.
John Vaughan's regiment leaped to the support of the falling blue waves.
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