A wagon loaded with entrenching tools, on which sat half a dozen negroes
rattled by on its way to the rear. A solid shot plumped squarely into
the load.
John saw picks, spades, shovels and negroes suddenly fill the air. Every
negro lit on his feet and his legs were running when he struck the
ground. They reached the tall timber before the last pick fell.
The regiments were going into battle double quick, but they were not
going so fast they couldn't laugh.
"Hurry up men!" the Colonel called. "Hurry up, let's get in there and
help 'em!"
A moment more and they were in it.
The man beside John threw up both hands and dropped with the dull,
unmistakable thud of death--the soldier who has been in battle knows the
sickening sound.
They were thrown around the Third Corps battery to protect their guns
which had been dragged to a place more securely within the lines. Still
their gunners kept falling one by one--falling ominously at the crack of
a single gun in the woods. A Confederate sharpshooter had climbed a tree
and was picking them off.
A tall Westerner spoke to the Colonel:
"Let me go huntin' for him!"
The Commander nodded and John went with him--why? He asked himself the
question before he had taken ten steps through the shadowy underbrush.
The answer was plain. He knew the truth at once.
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