It came at last, a bellowing, thunderous roar, whose echoes shook the hills for miles, as the hissing shell went plowing through the air, bursting harmlessly at last just beyond its destined mark. The enemy were in no hurry to retort, for a deep silence ensued, broken ere long by another heavy gun, which did its work more thoroughly than its predecessor had done, for where several breathing souls had been there was nought left save the bleeding mutilated trunks of what were once human forms. The battle had commenced. Sherman’s Brigade, in which was the N. Y. 13th, did its part nobly, overrunning in its headlong charges battery after battery, and recking little of the shafts of death falling so thick and fast. Louder and more deafening grew the battle din, hoarser and heavier the battle thunder, denser, deeper the battle smoke, dimming the brightness of that Sabbath morn. Louder, shriller grew the Gaelic scream, fiercer rose the Celtic cry, wilder rang the yells of the 13th, as its members plunged into the thickest of the fight their demoniacal shouts appalling the hearts of the foe far more than the rain of shot so vigorously kept up, and causing them to flee as from a pack of fiends. Steady in its place George Graham’s giant form was seen; no thought of Annie now; no thought of home; no thought of Bible buttoned over the heart; thoughts only of the fray and victory. Not far away, and where the fight was thickest, the widow’s boys, Eli and John, stood firm as granite rocks, the beaded sweat dropping from their burning brows, begrimed with battle smoke, as with unflinching nerve and hands that trembled not, they took their aims, seeing more than one fall before their sure fire.