None came--he was holding the centre of Grant's army
with three thousand men. What he had won was by sheer audacity--the
enemy had been surprised, and seemed laboring under a species of
stupor; if not supported, and supported at once, he was gone!
An hour afterward, Gordon was returning, shattered and bleeding at
every pore. The enemy had suddenly come to their senses after the
stunning blow. From the forts and redoubts crowning every surrounding
hill issued the thunder. Cannon glared, shell crashed, musketry rolled
in long fusillade, on three sides of the devoted Confederates. Huddled
in the trenches they were torn to pieces by a tempest of shell and
bullets.
As the light broadened, the hills swarmed with blue masses hastening
toward the scene of the combat, to punish the daring assailants.
Grant's army was closing in around the little band of Gordon. No help
came to them, they were being butchered; to stay longer there was mere
suicide, and the few who could do so, retreated to the Confederate
lines.
They were few indeed. Of the splendid assaulting column, led by Gordon,
more than two thousand were killed or captured. He had split the
stubborn trunk, but it was the trunk which now held the wedge in its
obdurate jaws.
Gordon retreated with his bleeding handful--it was the second or third
time that this king of battle had nearly accomplished impossibilities
by the magic of his genius.
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