we made a fight of it, the best we could. There was a moment's pause, the merest instant in which to breathe, and my eyes met Harwood's. He was naked to the waist, hatless, blood dripping from a cut over one eye, the stock of his carbine shattered.
"Ah, gunner of Staunton," he called out cheerily, although his voice cracked with dryness. "Didn't I tell you if you wanted a good time to jine the cavalry."
"Forward, men! forward!" It was Fox's voice, although I saw nothing of him. "Once more, and it's over with—forward!"
"Now, lads, meet them!" burst out Harwood. "About me, Third Kentucky—here they come!"
They drove us in so as to encircle us, yet the jumble of benches served as some protection to our rear. Perhaps the fact that there were Yankees between us and the pulpit prevented firing for we met hand to hand in a death grapple. I have seen battles, yet nothing like that; it was as though beasts of the jungle fought; men struggled with naked hands, struck death blows, fired into each other's faces, trampled over writhing bodies, cursing, or yelling defiance as they fell. We scarcely knew friend from foe, blue from gray. I cannot even tell what occurred to myself in those breathless moments. I know I fought madly, blindly—again and again
