A feeling of amity, almost of fraternization, had existed between the picket lines in front of Wood’s division for many days. In the early morning of that day, being in charge of the left of our picket line, I received a turn-out and salute from the Confederate reserve as I rode the line. But the friendly relation was soon to be rudely disturbed. My pickets, composed of the 19th Ohio and the 9th Kentucky, became the line of skirmishers. Our troops being well out of their works, we advanced with our left resting on Citico Creek, and I believe that from these regiments came the first shots in that glorious advance that resulted in the taking of Orchard Knob, the key of the enemy’s position. With impatient joy they witnessed the stars and stripes on Lookout’s crest, and heard the guns of Hooker on the enemy’s left. The evidences of the hard fighting by Sherman and the stubborn resistance Bragg’s right was giving him were borne on every wind. The flanking assaults upon the Ridge were not achieving success. There must be another “demonstration” by the center. Grant stands on Orchard Knob, silently smoking the inevitable cigar. He sees the heavy work to the right and left and that the waning day is showing its lengthening shadows. The center must again relieve the pressure. To Thomas goes the order: “Take the rifle-pits at the foot of the ridge. At the six-gun signal from Orchard Knob, advance the lines to the attack.” Baird, Wood, Sheridan and Johnson were quickly in the order named from left to right. Restlessly they await the signal. It is well on to four o’clock. At last the sharp report of a cannon from the Knob! Another! and another! and in quick succession the six have thundered forth the order for the charge. To your feet and forward, men of the Cumberland! “Take the rifle-pits at the foot of the ridge,” is the order. How splendidly they respond. Adding emphasis to their loud huzzas is the noise of the light artillery on the plain and the deep roar of the big siege guns in the forts of Chattanooga. The crest of the ridge throws its full weight of metal at the lines of blue. The musketry fire from the pits is full in their faces. But neither shot nor shell can stop the impetuous advance. On and on they go, surmounting every obstacle. The order is obeyed. The rifle-pits are ours and their late defenders our prisoners. How the grey jackets hasten to the rear. We wonder at their haste, but soon understood it when the guns of the ridge, depressed to sweep the pits, seemed to open the gates of hell itself upon us. We cannot stay. Must we fall back? Perish the thought. No! No! No order given, and yet to every man the impulse. Forward the whole line! To the crest of the ridge and take the guns! Every man forward!