It
was certain death to venture in that storm-swept space. Only a few brave
men fought their way through to rescue a fallen comrade.
It was not until the 7th that a truce was arranged to clear this shamble
and then every man in blue was dead save two. Everywhere blood, blood,
blood in dark slippery pools--dead horses--dead men--smashed guns, legs,
arms, torn and mangled pieces of bodies--the earth plowed with shot and
shell.
Thirty days had passed since Grant met Lee in the tangled Wilderness and
the Northern army had lost sixty thousand men, two thousand a day.
It is small wonder that he decided not to try longer "to fight it out on
that line."
Lee had put out of combat as many men for his opponent as he had under
his command at any time and his army with the reinforcements he had
received was now as strong as the day he met Grant.
For twelve days the two armies lay in their entrenchments on this field
of death while the Federal Commander arranged a new plan of campaign.
The sharpshooting was incessant. No man in all the line of blue could
stand erect and live an instant. Soldiers whose time of service had
expired and were ordered home, had to crawl on their hands and knees
through the trenches to the rear.
The new Commander, on whose genius the President and the people had
planted their brightest hopes, had just reached the spot where McClellan
stood in June, 1862.
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