In the triumph, the capture, advance, But I think on the time when in lulls of

Sweeter nectar ne'er flowed, howe'er Helped to staunch the quick blood just sparkling and cold,

From out chalice of silver or goblet of Softened broad, gaping wounds that

Moistened thin, livid lips, so despairing 'Twas as easy his passion from war to

How he bravely, unflinchingly, grandly Then away in some garret the cobwebs

And how, when the death-dealing work My battered, old, cloth-covered tin canwas done,

THE BATTLE OF SAILOR'S CREEK.

Vivid Battle Pictures and Hand-to-Hand Conflict.

APRIL 6, 1865.

COL. ARCHIBALD HOPKINS, 37th Mass. Vols.

N the 2d of April, 1864, we had been in the front line of the assaulting column at Petersburg. On the 3d, 4th, and 5th, our corps having been attached to General Sheridan's command by his special request, we were making forced marches, keeping up with the cavalry in that relentless pursuit, which was the secret of final success. The weather had grown very warm for the season, and, after the first halt, the ground for acres was covered with overcoats, extra blankets, and clothing, and various little comforts which even the oldest soldiers sometimes begin a campaign with, but which are gradually discarded till only the barest necessaries remain. On the 6th we had already covered twenty

miles, when about 2 P. M. rapid artillery firing was heard, and an order to double-quick told us that there was work ahead. There followed a hard three miles run, the men dripping and panting under their loads, but determined to be in at the death, for every one felt the end was at hand.

At the first sound of the artillery the men began without orders to fill the magazines of their Spencer rifles as they moved along. The Spencer, at that time, was by far the best weapon in use, not so heavy as the Springfield, and surpassing it in range and precision.

At the top of the slope in a field to the left of the road, near an old barn, Sheridan sat on his black horse, talking to Wright, and I saw him make a gesture with his palms turned to the front that said unmistakably whatever opposed us on the hill opposite was to be pushed out of the way. As the men recognized Sheridan a rattling cheer went down the line, for every man implicitly trusted his splendid leadership.

His cavalry had cut off the principal wagon train of Lee's army, and Stonewall Jackson's corps, now commanded by Ewell, had been put in position to check our pursuit and save the train. General Kershaw was on the right of their line, Custis Lee on the left, and the naval battalion of picked men from the gunboats at Richmond, was in the rear of Lee's right, in reserve.

After crossing the creek, which was barely fordable, the line was reformed, and the regiment moved by the flank short distance to the right, and then the order was brought to charge up the hill. The growth of young pines was so dense that it was impossible to tell whether our connection on the right or left was maintained.

us.

We were now moving steadily up the hill, and bullets began to fly plentifully. Instinctively we felt that a few steps more would precipitate a bloody fight, but the line did not waver nor was there any flinching or skulking. As we rose the crest, a crashing volley from an invisible enemy tore through the pines over our heads. The misdirected aim was most fortunate for Before the enemy could reload we were close upon them. At the word every man poured in seven shots from his Spencer, at easy speaking distance and with deadly effect. Large numbers fell killed and wounded, many came in and gave themselves up, some escaped, and all semblance of organization or opposition melted away from our front and disappeared. Flushed with success we moved steadily to the front a distance of probably three hundred yards; when the growth becoming less dense it appeared that we had no support on either flank. At this juncture Custis Lee moved the naval battalion through one of the deep gulches around our right, and about half the

length of the regiment in our rear. We discovered the movement just in time to face about, and in a moment it was hand to hand, and a brief, fierce struggle ensued with musketry at arm's length, officers fighting with clubbed muskets and pistols and the bayonet coming into free use for the first time in our experience. Clouds of sulphurous smoke obscured everything not close at hand, and it was as these opened and shifted that I had glimpses of battle groups and scenes which will always remain in my memory. One, just a momentary glimpse, seen and lost too soon to know the result, of a powerful officer in gray with clubbed musket raised to strike down Captain Chandley, who had a Spencer rifle and was cocking it to fire. Another of a flaming rebel battle-flag planted in the ground a few feet away, the center of a desperate struggle; a blue-coated sergeant seized it only to fall desperately wounded beneath its folds, when a plucky little fellow whom I recognized through the smoke as Private Taggart, of Co. B, wrested it from its hold and carried it safe to the rear. The battle was now at its height; blue and gray mingled in a confused mass, swayed back and forth in the eddying smoke, and fierce cries of "Down with 'em," "Give 'em h-1," and the clashing of crossed bayonets could be heard rising above the sound of the musketry. Intense excitement swallowed up all sense of danger and every man fought almost with savage fury. Meanwhile our Spencers. had again given us the advantage, and the enemy, broken into confused groups, were driven back into the ravine in a huddled mass. We gathered at its mouth and gave them such a terrible raking fire that they soon began to show white handkerchiefs in token of surrender, and our firing ceased.

The adjutant, John S. Bradley, of Lee, demanded the sword of a rebel officer near whom he was standing, when the officer, without a word, put his pistol to the adjutant's breast. He saw the movement just in time to knock his hand aside, when they grappled and rolled down into the ravine, the officer discharging his pistol into the adjutant's shoulder as they went. A rebel soldier also shot him through the thigh, and in an instant more his antagonist would have dispatched him with another shot, when Private Eddy, of Co. B, who had been watching his chance, as Bradley's assailant came uppermost, shot him dead. Eddy had hardly fired when a powerful grayback thrust him through with a bayonet, the point coming out near his spine,