Generals’ aides and orderlies rode like mad to and fro directing the troops to positions, for Gen. Ewell had broken through the Union lines in a desperate effort to turn the right flank of Grant’s army. THE PAGEANTRY OF WAR. War certainly has its fascinations as well as its horrors, and there is an enchantment that thrills in the movements of large bodies of soldiery with their bayonets glistening in the sun, the flags and guidons flying, the trumpets of the cavalry ringing piercingly and thrillingly, the field batteries rattling and rumbling along the road, with a score or more of bands playing. Nothing can make so striking or enchanting a picture. Artists can portray such a scene on canvas, but they cannot make you feel the thrill you experience when you are an active participant, touching elbows and keeping step with a thousand comrades whose hearts are young and gay. An officer rode up to our colonel and gave him instructions to report to Gen. Tyler off to the right of the open field. We were assigned a position behind a low stone fence, where we waited for about fifteen minutes. While lying there the order was given to “fix bayonets.” If you have “been there” yourself you know all about it. If not, let me tell you in all sincerity that the clicking of the cold steel will make an impression on one that will send the chills down his spine every time he thinks of it in after years. HORRIBLY SUGGESTIVE. From our position behind the wall we could not see the fighting, but the din of the battle came rolling and crashing to us through the woods and the wounded from the front line kept coming to the rear, covered with blood and the smoke of battle. The sight wasn’t pleasant, and moreover it was an object lesson that was horribly suggestive. The affair was getting too serious for much joking by the merrymakers in the ranks. The men were silent, but I know that they were doing a heap of thinking. The orders to go forward did not come any too soon, for the suspense of waiting is ten times more trying to a man’s nerves than to charge the enemy’s lines. We moved across another open field, where a Jefferson county battery (“C” of the 1st Artillery) was in position and shelling a piece of woods. Gen. Tyler ordered our colonel to detail two companies to support the battery and our company was one of them. I had to go with the regiment, and my father stay with his company. There was not much time for leave-taking. The father drew his boy to his side, pushed his cap back, pressed his lips to his forehead. Neither spoke. It was not necessary. Each knew the other’s thoughts. Capt. Smith, whose heart was tender as that of any woman,--“The tenderest are the bravest”--patted the drummer boy of Co. H on his shoulder as they parted and when a few feet had separated them called to him “good-bye,” and waved his sword in what might be the last farewell.