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Wallace's division-its General mortally wounded.

Let us turn to the fate of Hurlbut's companion division — that of Brigadier-General W, H. L. Wallace, which included the Second and Seventh Iowa, Ninth and Twenty-eighth Illinois, and several of the other regiments composing Major-General Smith's old division; with also three excellent batteries, Stone's, Richardson's and Weber's (all from Missouri,) forming an artillery battalion, under the general management of Major Cavender.

Here, too, the fight began about ten o'clock, as already described. From that time until four in the afternoon, they manfully bore up. The musketry fire was absolutely continuous; there was scarcely a moment that some part of the line was not pouring in its rattling volleys, and the artillery was admirably served, with but little intermission through the entire time.

Once or twice the infantry advanced, attempting to drive the continually increasing enemy, but though they could hold what they had, their numbers were not equal to the task of conquering any more.

Four separate times the rebels attempted in turn to charge on them. Each time the infantry poured in its quickest volleys, the artillery redoubled its exertions, and the rebels retreated with heavy slaughter. The division was eager to remain, even when Hurlbut fell back, and the fine fellows with the guns were particularly indignant at not being permitted to pound away. But their supports were gone on either side; to have remained in isolated advance would have been madness. Just as the necessity for retreating was becoming apparent, General Wallace, whose cool, collected bravery had commanded the admiration of all, was mortally wounded, and borne away from the field. At last the division fell back. Its soldiers claim — justly, I believe — the proud distinction of being the last to yield, in the general break of our lines, that gloomy Sunday afternoon, which, at half-past 4 o'clock, had left most of our army within half a mile of the Landing, with the rebels, up to a thousand yards of their position.

Capt. Stone could not resist the temptation of stopping, as he passed what had been Hurlbut's headquarters, to try a few parting shots. He did fine execution, but narrowly escaped losing some guns, by having his wheel-horses shot down. Capt. Walker did lose a twenty-pounder through some breakage in the carriage. It was recovered again on Monday.

The close of Sunday's fight.

We have reached the last act in the tragedy of Sunday. It is half-past 4 o'clock. Our front line of divisions has been lost since half-past 10. Our reserve line is now gone, too. The rebels occupy the camps of every division save that of W. H. L. Wallace. Our whole army is crowded in the region of Wallace's camps, and to a circuit of one half to two thirds of a mile around the Landing. We have been falling back all day. We can do it no more. The next repulse puts us into the river, and there are not transports enough to cross a single division till the enemy would be upon us.

Lew. Wallace's division might turn the tide for us — it is made of fighting men — but where is it? Why has it not been thundering on the right for three hours past? We do not know yet that it was not ordered up till noon. Buell is coming, but he has been doing it all day, and all last week. His advance-guard is across the river now, waiting ferriage; but what is an advanceguard, with sixty thousand victorious foes in front of us?

We have lost nearly all our camps and camp equipage. We have lost nearly half our field artillery. We have lost a division general and two or three regiments of our soldiers as prisoners. We have lost — how dreadfully we are afraid to think — in killed and wounded. The hospitals are full to overflowing. A long ridge bluff is set apart for surgical uses. It is covered with the maimed, the dead and dying. And our men are discouraged by prolonged defeat. Nothing but the most energetic exertion, on the part of the officers, prevents them from becoming demoralized. Regiments have lost their favorite field-officers; companies the captains whom they have always looked to, with that implicit faith the soldier learns, to lead them to battle.

Meanwhile there is a lull in the firing. For the first time since sunrise you fail to catch the angry rattle of musketry or the heavy booming of the field-guns. Either the enemy must be preparing for the grand, final rush that is to crown the day's success and save the Southern Confederacy, or they are puzzled by our last retreat, and are moving cautiously lest we spring some trap upon them. Let us embrace the opportunity, and look about the Landing. We pass the old-log house, lately post-office, now full of wounded and surgeons, which constitutes the “Pittsburgh” part of the Landing. General Grant and staff are in a group beside it. The General is confident. “We can hold them off till to-morrow; then they'll be exhausted, and we'll go at them with fresh troops.” A great crowd is collected around the building — all in uniforms, most of them with guns. And yet we are needing troops in the front so sorely!


On the bluffs above the river is a sight that may well make our cheeks tingle. There are not less than five thousand skulkers lining the banks I Ask them why they don't go to their places in the line: “Oh! Our regiment is all cut to pieces.” “Why don't you go to where it is forming again?” “I can't find it,” and the hulk looks as if that would be the very last thing he would want to do.

Officers are around among them, trying to hunt up their men, storming, coaxing, commanding — cursing I am afraid. One strange fellow — a Major, if I remember aright — is making a sort of elevated, superfine Fourth of July speech to

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