Semi-weekly interior journal. [volume] (Stanford, Ky.) 1881-1905, 1883-12-25
RExLrrrEs vs. TINE oL0RrEs or

REALITIES w IHN 0LOhIhs "
WAR;
A writer in the Boston Globe gives the
following stirring description Of what he
ayers 10 have been real battle scene in
the War Of the Rebellion:
We have been fighting at the edge Of
the woods. A moment ago the battle
was a confused mob. We look again and
the six guns are in position, the de
tached horses hurrying away, the am-
munition chests open, and along our
lines runs the command, "Give them
one more volley, and fall back 10 sup
port the guns" We had scarcely
obeyed when boom ! boom opens the
battery, and jets OF fire jump down and
scorch the green trees under which we
fought and struggled. The shattered
old brigade has a chance 10 breathe, for
the first time in three hours, as we form
a line and lie down. What grim, cool
fellows these cannoniers arei Every
man is a perfect machine. Bullets
splash dust in their faces, but they do
not vince. Bullets sing over and arouni !,
they do not dodge. There goes one to
the earth, shot through the hand as he
sponged his gun. That machinery loses
just one beat, misses just one cog in the
wheel, and then works away again rs
before. Every gun is using a short
fuse shell. The ground shakes and
trembles, the roar shuts out all sound
from a battle-line three miles long, aud
the shells go shrieking into the swamp
to cut trees short of, TO NOW great gaps
in the bushes, to hunt out, and shatter,
and mangle men until their corpses can
not be recognized as human. You
would think a tornado was bowling
through the forest, followed by pillows
of fire, and yet men live through
it-aye, press forward to capture
the battery. We can hear their shouts
as they form for the rush.
Now the shells are changed for grape
and canister, and the guns are fred so
fast that all reports blend into one
mighty roar. The shrek of a shell is
the wickedest sound in the war, but moth
ing makes the flesh crawl like the de-
moniac singing, purring, whistling grape
shot, and the serpent-like hiss of CAMS
ter. Mems legs and heads are torn
from bodies, and bodies cut in two. A
round shot or shell takes two men out
of the rank as it crashes through. Grape
and canister NOV a swath and pile the
dead on top Of each other. Through
the smoke we see q swarm of men. 1t is
not battle, but mob of men desper-
ate enough to battle their bayoness in
the fame Of the guns. The guns leap
from the ground almost as they are de-
pressed on the foe, and shrieks and /
screams and shouts blend into one awful
and steady cry. Twenty out of the bat.
terry are down, and the firing is inter-
rupted. The foe accept it as a sign OF
wavering, and come rushing on. They
are not ten feet away when the guns give
them last shot. That discharge picks
living men off their feet, and throws
them into a swamp, blackened, bloody
mass. Up now, as the enemy are among
the guns There is a silence of ten Sc
conds, and then the fash and roar OF
more than 5000 muskets and a rush for
ward with bayonets. For what Neither
on the right nor left, nor in front of US
is the living foel There are corpses
around us which have been struck by
three, four, and even six bullets, and no.
where on this acre Of ground is wound
ed mani The wheels Of the gun cannot
move until the blockade of dead is re-
moved Men cannot pass from caisson
to gun without climbing over rows of
dead. Every gun and wheel is smeared
with blood, every foot of grass has its
horrible stain. Historians write of the
glory Of war. Burial parties saw muir
der, where historians saw glory.