“  phrase to describe it.” We discussed the question. Wh-r-sh-shhh! A sudden exclamation and start all around the group. “Jove!” exclaims one, impulsively; “those fellows on the left have the range of headquarters exactly.” It was a round shot that had passed not two feet from the door and buried itself in the road three or four yards in front of us. In an instant there was another and another. General Meade came to the door, told the staff that they manifestly had our range, and that they had best go up the slope fifteen or twenty yards to the stable. As they started, a couple of shells came, then more from a different direction, and a sharp fusilade broke out just behind us on the left. Two rebel batteries clearly had our range, and the fight seemed opening up on the field of last night's bitterest contest. A few minutes before, I had been talking of going down to look at Barksdale's corpse — there was other work to do than looking at dead men now. Leaving the late headquarters to the shells, I galloped out the Taneytown road along the left. For three quarters of a mile the fire was bursting out. The air was alive with all mysterious sounds, and death in every one of them. There were “muffled howls” that seemed in rage because their missile missed you, the angry buzz of the familiar Minie, the spit of the common musket-ball, hisses, and the great whirring rushes of shells. And then there came others that made the air instinct with warning, or quickened it with vivid alarm; long wails that fatefully bemoaned the death they wrought; fluttering screams that filled the whole space with their horror, and encompassed one about as a garment; cries that ran the diapason of terror and despair.
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