The troops upon the opposite bank were also citizen soldiers, serving the so-called Confederacy with bravery and valor. They were sheltered by woods, by excavations, by walls and fences, ravines and hills. They had great advantage in position, and confidently expected to hold the ground. Their commander could look down from his head-quarters on the Sharpsburg hills, and behold their gallantry. To carry that bridge would be an achievement which would have forever a place in the history of the nation. Men, when preparing to do a great duty, where life and honor are at stake, sometimes, with clear vision, look down the path of ages. The mind asks itself, How will those who come after me look upon the work of to-day? The soul feels the weight of the hour, the responsibility of the moment, the duty of the instant. With the truly brave there can be no faltering then, in the face of danger. They can die if need be, but they cannot turn from their duty. Once more the effort. Simmons plants two of his guns to sweep the hillside across the stream. The brave and noble Colonel Kingsbury leads out his regiment once more. The assaulting column prepare for the decisive movement. They fix their bayonets firmly, throw aside their knapsacks and all that encumbers them. All is ready. The signal is given. The Eleventh Connecticut spring to their work. They dash down to the river, firing rapidly. Their Colonel falls, mortally wounded, but his men fight on. Enraged now at their loss, they fight to avenge him. The long, dark column is in motion. It emerges from the shelter of the ridge. Again the hillside and the wall above become a sheet of flame. Up to the bridge, upon it, dash the men in blue, their eyes glaring, their muscles iron, their nerves steel. The front rank goes down. Men pitch headlong from the parapet into the water. Stones fly from the arches. Shells, shrapnel, canister, tear the ranks asunder, but on, to the center of the bridge and across it, with a yell louder than the battle, up the steep hillside, creeping, climbing, holding their breath, summoning all the heroism of life, all energy, into one effort, charging with the gleaming bayonet, they drive the Rebels from the bushes, the trees, the quarries, the wall! The work is accomplished. The ground is theirs, won from General Toombs, who, before the war began, boasted that the time would come when he would call the roll of his slaves on Bunker Hill. The Rebels flee in confusion across the field to gain the heights nearer the town. Ferrero's men lie down behind the wall and on the hillside, under shelter at last. They bathe their fevered brows, and satisfy their thirst in the stream, while the other divisions of the corps move down from their positions of the morning. It was gloriously done, and the place will be known, forever, in history, as the Burnside Bridge.