L. P. Brockett, The camp, the battlefield, and the hospital: or, lights and shadows of the great rebellion

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[252] eyes for it again. Did ever battle have so vast a cloud of witnesses? The hive shaped hills have swarmed. Clustered like bees, blackening the housetops, lining the fortifications, over yonder across the theatre, in the seats with the Catilines, everywhere, are a hundred thousand beholders. Their souls are in their eyes. Not a murmur can you heal. It is the most solemn congregation that ever stood up in the presence of the God of battles. I think of Bunker Hill, as I stand here; of the thousands who witnessed the immortal struggle; and fancy there is a parallel. I think, too, that the chair of every man of them will stand vacant against the wall to-morrow, and that around the fireside they must give thanks without him if they can.

At half-past 3, a group of generals, whose names will need no “Old Mortality” to chisel them anew, stood upon Orchard Knob. The hero of Vicksburg was there, calm, clear, persistent, far-seeing. Thomas, the sterling and steady; Meigs, Hunter, Granger, Reynolds. Clusters of humbler mortals were there, too, but it was any thing but a turbulent crowd; the voice naturally fell into a subdued tone, and even young faces took on the gravity of later years. Generals Grant, Thomas, and Granger conferred, an order was given, and in an instant the Knob was cleared like a ship's deck for action. At twenty minutes of four, Granger stood upon the parapet; the bugle swung idle at the bugler's side, the warbling fife and the grumbling drum unheard-there was to be louder talk-six guns, at intervals of two seconds, the signal to advance. Strong and steady his voice rang out: “Number or e, fire! Number two, fire! Number three, fire!” it seem — d to me the tolling of the