to hand conflict now takes place, and the rebels are forced to retire inside their inner lines of breastworks. Oh, why do not reinforcements follow up, and the rebel army would surely be cut in two? but our brave boys fighting in front are forced to retire for the want of support, after leaving hundreds of their comrades to share the warrior's grave. Who is to blame for this blunder? Of course, no one will shoulder the fault or incapacity of the move, and the whole mining operation has turned out to be one of the greatest blunders of the war. It is said that the "colored troops fought bravely" in this battle, and suffered fearfully before they were forced to retire. We lie down to rest in our present position, and next morning moved back to where we started to go on our Deep Bottom campaign. Here we build comfortable quarters. out of oak boughs, to keep away the rays of the hot, burning sun, and all is again quiet in the Potomac army. We do not stay long, however, to enjoy our quarters that we have worked so hard to build, for we get the order to move again. There does not seem to be any rest for the weary; at least this can be applied in our case, for this is only a repetition of a good many cases, where we worked hard to build comfortable quarters and would be ready to enjoy the fruits of our labors, when an order would come to pack up and be ready to march at a moment's notice. Once we were on a march, and a forced one at that; we halted in a field for a rest when the Colonel told us we would have time to cook coffee. One of the boys asked if we would have time to drink it. But our Colonel could not answer in the affirmative, for he could not tell any better than ourselves on such occasions. CHAPTER XLIV. SECOND BATTLE AT DEEP BOTTOM-ANOTHER FIZZLE-FRONT A POEM-THE PICKET GUARD. About the 10th of August we take up our line of march for Deep Bottom again. This time as well as before, we march as though the "old boy" himself was after us. Not a rest nor a halt during the long, dreary, sultry night. Oh, how tired every man is. A great many fall out by the roadside, not caring what becomes of them. Those who ride on horseback have to change horses once in a while, but the poor wearied soldier keeps on. Who is putting down this monster rebellion? Is it the officers? Of course they help to a certain extent, but get well paid however, and as for hardships, they know but little of them, for when they halt at night they have their servants to wait on them, and they live like princes, for their baggage wagons with supplies are sure to be up at night, when they can bask in the luxury of everything good to eat and drink; while the poor wearied soldiers who do the fighting are so tired that when they halt for the night they are glad to lie down; so tired that he cannot get anything to eat, only chew his dried hard-tack. In speaking of officers I do not mean those of the line, for very often they have to share the hardships of their men. We arrive once more on the enemy's left flank, and try to break their wing, but they will not break, so we give up in disgust at their stubborness, and get back to help dig them out in front of Petersburg. We arrive foot-sore and weary, and get the orders to build more quarters. We settle down to the task with the best humor we can muster after another great fizzle. Here the gallant and brave Colonel John Pulford once more joins his regiment, the Fifth, after his severe and almost mortal wound received at the battle of Malvern Hill. Too much praise cannot be given this officer for his bravery and courage. Fear he does not know, for he rides ahead of his noble regiment on the charge. He does not say, like some officers I could mention, "Go in boys," but always leads and says, "Come on boys," which means that he is always in the front and thickest of the fight. While in our present camp we build Fort Davis, one of the nicest forts on the line. It has embrasures for about twenty-four guns, with a wide ditch all around, filled with water, and three lines of abattis around the fort. Abattis is sharp sticks stuck in the ground with points sticking outward. They are put solid in the ground, and so thick that a man with great difficulty can get through. They are for the purpose of impeding the progress of an attacking party against the fort. We move into the fort, and have very comfortable quarters; nothing to disturb us but an occasional bullet from some rebel long range guns on the picket line. Our neighboring fort to the right, which is named after the fiery place underneath that our good Dominie talks so much about, is so close to the rebel picket line that it is almost certain death to show one's head above the works. Both picket lines keep up an incessant fire on each other day and night. The fort is pierced with port holes for the infantry to fire through. The rebel sharp-shooters have such a close range of these that almost every time they can put a bullet through. A touching incident occurred here which is worthy of mention, to show that in an instant all of our plans can be dashed to pieces by cruel war. A brave soldier, whose term of three years hard service was out, with his discharge in his pocket was ready to go home and rest on the laurels he had so dearly won, and enjoy the comforts of "home, sweet home." But alas, for all his plans for the future, he never leaves Fort Hell alive. He had shaken hands and bid his comrades good-bye, and starts to leave the fort on his homeward march, but a thought strikes him, and he turns back and tells his comrades that he must have one more look at the Johnnies before he leaves. His comrades expostulate with him not to go near the port holes again; that now he has his discharge in his pocket and ought to be satisfied with what sights he has seen; but all to no purpose; he must have one more look, and goes to the port hole and looks through, but it is his last look on this earth, for he falls back a corpse in the arms of his weeping comrades. Poor fellow, he has received his discharge, and now goes home to that bourne from whence no traveler returns. One dark night, while everything is hushed in silence, all is as still in the Potomac Army as can possibly be; the stars shine brightly down on the scene, and the lonely pickets strain their eyes keeping their watch. Those in our front do not see the silent and advancing foe, as they come through the grass before them. All at once thousands of the enemy rise up and capture the men on picket before they had time to give the alarm. In an instant a breach is made in our works, and all is done so still that the sentinels walking their beats on the parapets of our fort did not hear a sound, nor did they think there was anything unusual going on, until a tremendous firing opens out in the rear, where the commissary stores are kept. Every one is around in the fort; the draw bridge is taken up, and we line the parapets, expecting an attack every moment. We peer into the darkness, but nothing in the shape of a rebel is seen, and we lean on our arms and await events. We think it is only a splurge of the Johnnies to get some of our hard tack and salt pork, but we notice by the sound that the firing is getting nearer to us, and once in a while a stray bullet whistles over our heads. Nearer and nearer it comes, and the rebels get back between us and Fort Hell. Our artillery open upon them and the rebels open from their forts. Fort Hell is let loose, and nearly five hundred guns open their deadly throats along the line. The mortars commence to throw their kettle-like shells, and the whole air is filled with the most magnificent as well as dreadful fireworks that any one could wish to behold. The mortar shells chase each other way up into the air and then come down with a graceful bend on the other side of the rebel works, where they burst, the pieces flying in all directions, and woe be unto him who runs into contact with one of them. A mortar gun resembles a huge kettle imbedded in the earth, with its great, wide, round mouth pointing upward, ready at any time to be fed with its deadly food. Our surmises were correct about the rebel move. All they wanted was some provisions, and, of course, they would like to have been let alone in their little operations, as their distinguishsd chieftain, Jeff., has often said. But we are afraid our Uncle Sam would not like to have |