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T was just after the battle of Chancellorsville, and the storm of shot and shell had ceased to rain upon the wounded, who were pinioned in the blazing woods, when the sudden blow which Stonewall Jackson's army had struck, had left a trail of woe and blood. The dense forest had hidden the oncoming of Jackson's forces. They stole in noiselessly and fell upon the Union men under General Hooker, like an avalanche.
The pickets had not given the alarm, so swift and silent had been Jackson's advance. The battle was over. The musketry had ceased its rattle, and darkness had fallen, lit only by the red blaze which enwrapped the Confederate and Union wounded, without mercy. Some of them had tried to crawl away from the consuming fire, which played about them, and licked up leaves and underbrush, and now and then, as a gust of wind arose, sending the burning brands into the treetops to start a new conflagration.
The heat burned into their wounds, and as the shrieks of those who could not drag themselves away rose on the air, it seemed as if demons were calling to each other, so madly did they shout for help and mercy from the pitiless wall of fire.
Men were caught as if in a network, and held prisoners indeed. Choking with the smoke, blinded by the sparks whirling in every direction, there seemed no hope or chance for rescue.
