Sadly glorious deeds were done in these wilderness fights. When the One Hundred and Nineteenth New York regiment was so near the hostile ranks that a halt to throw up a temporary breastwork of logs was necessary, by some singular and melancholy mistake a party of twelve or fifteen men were ordered to advance beyond these works on picket duty. Though knowing that it was almost certain death to show their heads above the walls of their little fort, still they obeyed without question or hesitation. They had advanced scarcely more than a rod beyond their comrades, when a heavy volley of musketry prostrated to the ground every man save two! Two were killed instantly, and the rest wounded more or less severely. All of the wounded, however, were able to drag themselves back and escape, except one poor fellow, Sergeant Guider, who was so badly wounded that he could not stir from his place. There he lay almost within arms-length of his comrades, and yet they were powerless to rescue him or give him aid, so galling was the rebel fire. One bolder than the rest made the hazardous attempt, but scarcely had he got over the breastworks when he fell severely wounded. They endeavored to allay his raging thirst by throwing to him canteens of water, and even one of these was pierced by a rebel bullet. Finally, as they could not go over the breastworks, they dug a way under them with no other implements than their bayonets, and through it two men crawled and succeeded in reaching him unhurt. Just as they reached him their comrades in the rear gave an exultant cheer, which elicited from the rebels another volley. A fatal ball pierced the poor fellow’s breast for a second time, and he had only time to murmur feebly to his rescuers, “Now I die content; I am in your hands,” and expired. Then came the terrible assault upon the stronghold to dislodge the enemy. Oh, how bravely yet vainly did the columns to whom the voice of their leader was enough to take them anywhere, dash against the rocks terraced with cannon! Again the charge sounded, and, like tides thundering on the face of Gibraltar, the lion-hearted Hooker hurled his forces upon the death-dealing intrenchments. There was an Illinois regiment, whose sublime patriotism, like that of the One Hundred and Nineteenth New York, shed immortal radiance on the sanguinary field, assuring all men that our conflict is no tragical play of ambition, or murderous work of revenge.