Hood's men were swarming on the crest. A
loud cheer arose, but all at once they found themselves face to face
with a line of bayonets, while beyond were seen confused and struggling
masses, dragging up cannon.
What followed was a savage grapple rather than an ordinary conflict.
Only a small part of Hood's force had reached the summit, and this was
assailed by a whole brigade. The fight was indescribable. All that the
eye could make out for some moments in the dust and smoke, was a
confused mass of men clutching each other, dealing blows with the
butt-ends of muskets, or fencing with bayonets--men in blue and gray,
wrestling, cursing, falling, and dying, in the midst of the crash of
small-arms, and the thunder of cannon, which clothed the crest in
flame.
When the smoke drifted, it was seen that the Confederates had been
repulsed, and driven from the hill. Hood was falling back slowly, like
a wounded tiger, who glares at the huntsman and defies him to the last.
The slope was strewed with some of his bravest. The Federal cannon
roaring on Round Top Hill, seemed to be laughing hoarsely.
McLaws, too, had fallen back after nearly seizing upon the crest in his
front. The enemy had quickly re-enforced their left, with brigades,
divisions, and corps, and the Confederates had been hotly assailed in
their turn.
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