Browsing named entities in Southern Historical Society Papers, Volume 11. (ed. Reverend J. William Jones). You can also browse the collection for Fulkerson or search for Fulkerson in all documents.

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Southern Historical Society Papers, Volume 11. (ed. Reverend J. William Jones), General Beauregard's report of the battle of Drury's Bluff. (search)
ort—too short, alas! for Shields, for mortal man; for lo! yonder, one hath clattered through the bridge, and bounding up the heights where the forces lay, pressing his steed with burning spurs, his visage all aglow and blue eye blazing, and shouts: Beat the Long Roll! Drums roll with palpitating throb; men spring to the ranks, cannoneers harness; and ere Shields can brush away the flimsy obstacles between him and the trains, already Jackson comes streaming back with Poague's battery and Fulkerson's tall riflemen—streaming down the hill, a flashing torrent. There is one crash of thunder, one ringing volley, one wild yell; the bayonets gleam through the shadowy cavern of the bridge, and the thing is done. Hostile cannon lie disabled, horses weltering around them in blood; intruders flee pell-mell, splashing through the stream, whither they came; while Jackson stands alone, over on the green hillside, still, calm, and reverent, his hand lifted in prayer and thanksgiving that the vil
Southern Historical Society Papers, Volume 11. (ed. Reverend J. William Jones), Stonewall Jackson. (search)
ort—too short, alas! for Shields, for mortal man; for lo! yonder, one hath clattered through the bridge, and bounding up the heights where the forces lay, pressing his steed with burning spurs, his visage all aglow and blue eye blazing, and shouts: Beat the Long Roll! Drums roll with palpitating throb; men spring to the ranks, cannoneers harness; and ere Shields can brush away the flimsy obstacles between him and the trains, already Jackson comes streaming back with Poague's battery and Fulkerson's tall riflemen—streaming down the hill, a flashing torrent. There is one crash of thunder, one ringing volley, one wild yell; the bayonets gleam through the shadowy cavern of the bridge, and the thing is done. Hostile cannon lie disabled, horses weltering around them in blood; intruders flee pell-mell, splashing through the stream, whither they came; while Jackson stands alone, over on the green hillside, still, calm, and reverent, his hand lifted in prayer and thanksgiving that the vil