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 sufficient to establish another line of resistance, or to check, even momentarily, the flow and spread of the panic. Colonel Love, of the One-hundred-and-sixteenth New York, dashed his horse into the broken ranks of the Second South Carolina, and captured its battle flag, escaping unhurt from the bullets of the color-guard. But the fighting soon swept far ahead of the tired infantry, which followed in perfect peace over the ground that during the morning it had stained with the blood of its retreat. Dead and wounded men, dead and wounded horses, dismounted guns, broken-down caissons, muskets with their stocks shivered and their barrels bent double by shot, splinters of shell, battered bullets, and blood over all, like a delirium of Lady Macbeth or the Chourineur, bore testimony to the desperate nature of the long, wide-spread conflict. The number of slaughtered horses was truly extraordinary, showing how largely the cavalry had been used, and how obstinately the artillery had been fought. I noticed that almost every dead soldier was covered by an overcoat or blanket, placed over him by some friend or perhaps brother. Of the wounded, a few lay quiet and silent; here and there one uttered wild, quavering cries expressive of intense agony or despair; others, and these the majority, groaned from time to time gently, and with a pitiful, patient courage. One man, whose light blue trowsers were clotted with that dull crimson so sickeningly common, and whose breath was short and voice hoarse, called feebly as we passed, “Hurrah for General Emory!” “Are you badly hurt, my lad?” asked Emory, stopping his horse.
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