Here occurred one of those unfortunate fights in which it was the fortune of our forces so often to participate during the course of the war. Our lines were formed in something of a circle on the top of a knoll extending along the river, where, from the maneuvering of the enemy, we could see that they were in strong force. Soon they came charging down upon us, but our line stood firm as a rock, and sent them whirling back into the woods, where they re-formed their broken line, and with reinforcements came again to the attack, shaking their banners and yelling like mad-men, they came, but only to recoil, broken and shattered before our deadly volleys. Once again did they charge our unshaken line, but to be hurled back as before. Night was now rapidly coming on, and we were anxiously looking for the balance of our troops to cross the river, but they did not come, and after twice getting orders, we began slowly to recross the river. Our regiment and the 34th Massachusetts, than which there was no braver nor more gallant regiment in the service—were left to protect the rear, and of course, were the last to effect the crossing, in doing which many lives were lost, quite a number of men in the regiment being either shot in the river or drowned in its rushing waters. Lieut. Willoughby, of company F, was wounded, and Lieut. Williams, of company B, was killed, while fording the river—a noble-hearted fellow, mourned by all who knew him. Orderly Davis, of company A, mortally wounded while firing the last shot at the enemy, was carried to an Island midway of the stream, where he was left to die—but before his brave spirit winged its flight to that other camping ground, he placed under a log by his side, his watch, pocket-book, knife, and all of his trinkets, and the next day when his comrades returned to the spot to give him burial, these things were missed; when the log being accidentally misplaced, his treasures were disclosed, and afterwards were sent home to his wife. Knowing his hours were few, lying there alone, dying, with only God’s Angels watching over him, his last thoughts were of the dear ones at home, secreting his effects as narrated, hoping them to fall into the hands of his friends, that his wife and babies might receive this, his last, his dying gift. We often read of heroism upon the battle field when the blood is up, with flags waving in the breeze, bright bayonets gleaming on every side, and the thundering of cannon crashing through the air. But thus to die alone, to fill an unknown and forgotten grave, with the sad murmurings of the Shenandoah chaunting its endless requiem around his resting-place, and leave such evidence of coolness and christian fortitude in meeting the grim messenger face to face, is a kind of bravery before which that of the battlefield pales into insignificance.