But Palmer’s hurrahing lines were checked, as had been Brannan’s and Johnson’s. In through the woods, now all afire, came A. P. Stewart’s division of Buckner’s corps. Alabama and Tennessee, three thousand muskets, it struck Palmer’s line and forced it aside. Van Cleve came to help, but Van Cleve gave way, too, pressed by the grey across the vast, smoke-filled stage to the ridge crowned by earthworks that like a drop-scene closed the back. The roar of battle filled all space; officers could not be heard, nor, in the universal smoke, could waved sword or hat be seen. Off to the right, Forrest’s bugles were ringing. Now and then drums were beaten, but this noise seemed no louder than woodpeckers tapping, lost in the crash of the volleys. Alabama and Tennessee pressed on. It was half past two o’clock. Hood had three brigades of his own division and three of Bushrod Johnson’s, and now, from the Lee and Gordon’s Mills road, Hood, unleashed at last, entered the battle. Into it, yelling and firing, double-quicked his tall grey lines. He came with the force of a catapult. _Yaaaih! Yaaaiiiihhh!_ yelled Tennessee, North Carolina, Arkansas, and Texas. They struck the Chattanooga road and drove the blue along it, toward the westering sun. Up at a double swung the fresh blue troops of Negley and Wood, Davis and Sheridan. In the descending day they pushed the grey again to the eastward of the contested road. At sunset in came Patrick Cleburne, general beloved, marching with his division over wildly obstructed roads from Hill on the extreme right. But it was late and the dark and smoky day was closing down. Night came, filled with the smell and taste of burned powder and of the wood smoke from all the forest afire. The firing became desultory, died away, save for now and then a sound of skirmishers. The two armies, Army of Tennessee, Army of Cumberland, rested. They rested from strife, but not from preparation for strife. The two giants, the blue and the grey, were weary enough, but between Chickamauga and the slopes of Missionary Ridge they did small sleeping that Saturday night, the nineteenth of September, 1863. All night rang the axes. “Log-works,” said the grey giant. “At dawn, I am going to storm log-works.” Fifty-seven thousand strong was the blue giant and the grey about the same. “To-morrow’s fight,” said both, “is going to lay over to-day’s.” “Where,” said, in addition, the grey—“where is General Longstreet?”