“Glory!” shouted Aunt Debby.
“There's a fringe of trees near the water's edge, whose tops reach nearly tot he top of the hill. The cannon shots tear the branches off and dash down the great ranks of Rebels with them.”
“The arth rocks as when He lays his finger upon hit,” said Aunt Debby.
The ground was trembling under the explosion of the fifty-eight pieces of artillery which Rosencrans hastily massed at four o'clock Friday, for the relief of his overpowered left. “What's them that go 'boo-woo-woo,' like great big dogs barkin'?”
“Those are John Mendenhall's big Napoleons,” said a wounded artillery officer. “Go on, Miss. What now?”
“The Rebels have stopped coming on. They are apparently firing back. The shells and the limbs of the trees still break their lines and tear them to pieces. Now our men dash across the river again, and begin a musketry fire that mows them down. They start to run, and our men charge after them, cheering as they run. Our men have taken their cannon away from them. The Rebels are running for life to get inside their works. The hillside is dotted with those who have fallen, and there are rows of them lying near the water. Now everything is quieting down again.”
“Glory ter God! for He has at last given the enemy inter our hands. Come and kiss me, honey, an' say good-by.”
From the throats of twenty-five thousand excited spectators of the destruction of Breckenridge's division rose cheers of triumph that echoed to the clouds.
“What sweet music that is!” said Aunt Debby, half unclosing her eyes. “God bless ye, honey. Good-by.”
The gentle eyes closed forever.