The regiment on our right made a sudden dash, and swept back the Confederate line. But our boys were unable to hold the advance position. The Johnnies fired upon them from both flanks, and back they came, slowly and with their faces to the foe, loading and firing as they retreated. They brought in a score or more of prisoners.
“Halloo, Reb! What are you fellows blocking our road for?” shouted a blue-clad trooper to a Confederate sergeant, as the prisoners were hustled to the rear.
“Who's a-blocking the road, Yank? I'm done. You all gobbled me in a squar fight.”
“Where do you hail from?”
“Ole South Carliney, and if you'll give me my parole, I'll go down thar and stay till the wah's over.”
We were having a lively exchange of leaden compliments, when the boys in charge of our horses—we were fighting on foot—began to cheer, and we knew that help was at hand. In a few minutes we saw Gen. Custer, at the head of his Michigan brigade, coming up the road.
Sheridan had sent Custer to Gregg's assistance at the request of the latter, who had informed Sheridan that he could drive the rebels from their breastworks with the help of a few more men. Of the closing up of the battle Gen. Gregg says: “Soon Custer reported with his brigade. This he dismounted and formed on a road leading to the front and through the center of my line. In column of platoons, with band playing, he advanced. As arranged, when the head of his column reached my line, all went forward with a tremendous yell, and the contest was of short duration. We went right over the rebels, who resisted with courage and desperation unsurpassed. Our success cost the Second Division two hundred and fifty-six men and officers, killed and wounded. This fight has always been regarded by the Second Division as one of its severest.”
The Confederates left us in possession of the field and the dead and wounded. Inside the earthworks, a little to the left of the road, a young rebel lay dying. A bullet had struck him in the breast, and his life's blood was flowing from the wound and from his mouth. He was not more than seventeen years old. The dead and dying were thick around the boy, showing that he had fallen where the fight was the hottest.
“I can't do anything for you, my son,” said a grayhaired Federal surgeon, who had examined his wound.
“Am I dying, Doctor?”