“Harry, see those regiments,” Ralph said to a fellow soldier—“look at the race. Which will come out ahead, I wonder? They are pretty well matched—both are fleet-footed.”
It was a race, indeed. A New Hampshire regiment was marching parallel with a Confederate regiment, and each were intent on reaching a certain high piece of ground. As they ran, the bullets whizzed back and forth, from both sides, and these pleasantries were kept up.
“The Johnnies are ahead—no, they have fallen back a little. The New Hampshire boys are in the lead now. They've reached the ground. Hurrah!” shouted Harry, and in his excitement he threw up his cap, and caught it on the point of his bayonet. As soon as the winners gained the coveted point, they poured shot into their late rivals' ranks.
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The artillery was heaviest near the church, and the dead lay so thick that they could have formed a foot bridge the entire length of the line.
“Wonder why Porter and Burnside keep so still?” This question was asked again and again. “See the rebs mowing down our men like ripe grass! Why don't they come to our assistance?”
“They are keeping their troops as reserves. The Confeds don't hold any of their men back, but launch every one of them at us.”
“That don't seem to me to be the right policy,” said Ralph. “But look—Franklin has come up from Crampton's Gap just in the nick of time. He is very welcome, for there are fresh troops advancing, from the right flank of the boys in gray.” Franklin's opportune coming infused new hope, and the boys' eyes brightened, cheery words went round, and muskets were handled with a will.