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 of the sharpshooter. Where is the dark cloud of blue uniforms that that night and day we heard the boom of the cannon and the crack fringed the horizon like a cloud of ill omen—75,000 men encircling the city? And where are the 20,000 gray uniforms that resisted? The gunboats that thundered by the batteries—the mortars that lit up the darkness with fiery meteors? Seventeen thousand Federals rest in yonder National Cemetery. Who can find the unknown graves where the Confederates rest in the trenches? This is holy ground—every hero laid down his life conscientiously as a sacred duty. We, the survivors, and this glorious assembly, meet to-day to unveil a monument in their honor, to commemorate the invincible courage with which they endured hardships into danger and death. Nobler men never drew breath than those whom the green grass covers from sight. Memory recalls those stirring scenes to the survivors of those bloody days. Many here recollect Baker's Creek, Port Gibson, and Chickasaw Bayou. And how the circle narrowed around us, until the entire force was entrenched in the city of Vicksburg. Then began the siege that gave her hills a world-wide fame, which will go ringing down the ages. For forty-seven days and nights the Confederates lay in the trenches, slowly starving on scanty rations that diminished with no hope of replenishing; when shot and shell were poured into the doomed city, and our ammunition was giving out, and no more to be had; when the slain were buried where they fell, and no reinforcements to take their places.
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