“General Burnside's orders are to take that bridge. We've got to do it; it won't be very much work, and then we'll soon be over to see our friends on the other side.”
“You think that's easy, do you? Wait and see. We're on low ground here, but the land over the other side is higher, and the road runs alongside the stream. Those fellows have their guns well placed, and can damage us bad.”
The bridge they were expected to take, was of stone, and rather narrow. The first brigade to attempt to cross was General Crook's.
“Hark! he's gone the wrong way. The rebels are pouring shot into him. He'll be cut all to pieces.”
The General had struck the wrong road, and was being subjected to a heavy fire. A Maryland regiment and a New Hampshire followed him on the double quick, but retreated, as they could not stand the fire!
“There is help for us now,” said Ralph, “for they are bringing up some guns that will speak loud for our side.”
Two heavy guns were soon thundering over the ground, and commanding the boys in gray who were guarding the bridge? Their persuasive tones opened the passage, and triumphantly the Union men crossed the bridge, and secured the position.
Four hours had been consumed, and thus General Lee improved his chance to bring fresh troops to his aid, who drove Burnside from the heights, and retook a battery which he had captured.
The battle was over. When the rattle of musketry is heard, the smoke of battle, and the wild plunging of the frightened horses, and the shouts and fierce onset of a maddened mass of human beings is felt, there is an excitement, a fever in the blood that strengthens the arm, and hardens the muscles—thoughts of self are forgotten. But when those accompaniments are missing—when the awful stillness of a deserted battle-ground succeeds them, then the heart grows faint and cold.