The Colonel threw up his hands in rage and pressed on with his men.
A wagon loaded with entrenching tools, on which sat half a dozen negroes rattled by on its way to the rear. A solid shot plumped squarely into the load.
John saw picks, spades, shovels and negroes suddenly fill the air. Every negro lit on his feet and his legs were running when he struck the ground. They reached the tall timber before the last pick fell.
The regiments were going into battle double quick, but they were not going so fast they couldn't laugh.
"Hurry up men!" the Colonel called. "Hurry up, let's get in there and help 'em!"
A moment more and they were in it.
The man beside John threw up both hands and dropped with the dull, unmistakable thud of death—the soldier who has been in battle knows the sickening sound.
They were thrown around the Third Corps battery to protect their guns which had been dragged to a place more securely within the lines. Still their gunners kept falling one by one—falling ominously at the crack of a single gun in the woods. A Confederate sharpshooter had climbed a tree and was picking them off.
A tall Westerner spoke to the Colonel:
"Let me go huntin' for him!"