of the reënforcements that would enable Thomas to hold Polk and Longstreet at bay till other troops could be sent to himthe troops that never came-or till darkness would bring deliverance; saw soldiers joyfully drink the sacrament of patriotism, some wearing the gray, some the blue; saw men die, gasping in death: "God bless and save my country”— some praying for the government at Richmond, others for the government at Washington; saw bravery and heroism unsurpassed at Marathon or Thermopyla-now under the Stars and Bars, now under the Stars and Stripes; saw the raptures of heavenly glory, smile of the great Jehovah, on lips already cold in death-the one hero from Mississippi, the other from Massachusetts; saw devout priests and ministers braving the perils and horrors of destruction, gently commending the dear Jesus, and holding before eyes rapidly dimming in death the Savior's Cross-some of the priests and ministers owning glad and devout allegiance to Jefferson Davis, others to Abraham Lincoln; God, Savior, Mother, Wife, Sister, Daughter, Sweetheart, ah, how men, even when grim Death is mercilessly throttling them, even after consciousness has left them, still murmur the sweetest and sacredest names-and often these names he heard, now on the lips of Rosecrans' dying men, now on the lips of the smitten boys of Bragg's and Hood's and Longstreet's cohorts; all these things he saw and heard, and more.

The coördination and coördering of the Federal troops, if there was any unity of council and action aside from the troops under Thomas' command, Simonson was too busy, or too ignorant of the technique of war, to understand—perhaps there was no synthesis at all. Fate or Providence had placed him at the very vortex of the seething hell of destruction.

To him it all was most terrible, most intoxicating, glorious. Advancing now, and now retreating; now wedged at

the right, now catapulted from the left; hurled down this 369 ravine, and in a moment mounting back again-as ships, for a moment plunged into the trough of the sea, rise to soar the loftiest billows; now fighting single-handed, now in the maelstrom of regiments and battalions swirling like some awful gyratory storm, or waters at a rocky headland lashed by powerful contending currents to foam and inextricable confusion; now the "rebel yell," now the "yankee thunder," and now the two in one as they grappled unto death for the others' colors or position.

Once Simonson saw a Federal battle-flag fall, the brave bearer shot through the head. The regiment, seeing Longstreet coming with an overwhelming force, broke and fled. Simonson grabbed up the flag just as there was a countercharge, and Longstreet swerved to the right. At that moment Lieut.-Col. Charles H. Morgan, of the 21st Wisconsin, came dashing up.

"What are you doing with that flag?" he thundered.

"The color-bearer's dead, sir," touching his cap, "and the regiment's gone; and I'm saving the Union, you see, single-handed."

"Where's your company, regiment, command?”

"Don't know, sir," standing "attention." "Too busy saving the Union to look after them, too. They'll have to look out for themselves till I get through with this job."

"Is there an eagle branded on the staff of the flag?" Looking "There is, sir."

"Then it belongs to one of the Wisconsin regiments. I belong to the Twenty-first. Give it to me!"

So the battle of Chickamauga raged. There wasn't much order. At times it was a captain's battle, sometimes even a private's. After McCook and Crittenden, both corps-commanders, and Rosecrans, commander-in-chief, had abandoned the field and returned to Chattanooga, not knowing

whether Thomas were annihilated or not, the battle often degenerated into hand-to-hand contests. Sometimes a private, a natural leader among his boon companions, would shout: "Come on, fellows. Let's give 'em hell, down yonder!" and away they'd go.

On two or three such occasions the young lawyer's instinct for leadership asserted itself. Once a rush was made by a remnant of Buckner's command, not more than a score or thirty men, to take a Federal gun that was held only by the gunners. The task would have been easy, and flying stragglers were making no resistance. Fired by the shame of the thing, and recalling a few of the commands and evolutions he had learned in the Harvard cadet-corps, and during a summer's drill in the Massachusetts militia, he shouted: "Attention! 'Bout face! At 'em, and give 'em hell!" Suiting the action to the command he took the lead. The stragglers, stirred by the bravery and audacity of the “high private," fell in line, and the "Johnny Rebs" took to their heels. Gaw, Garfield, and Wood witnessed the act, and Garfield said, "I must ascertain his name and command, and mention him to my chief. Just now the army is needing such young men ; and if I'm not mistaken some mighty good material's going to waste there."

At last-but, oh, how long that terrible afternoon !-the battle was over. Gen. Gordon Granger had fired the last volley, a shotted salute of six Napoleon guns, and Simonson, hunting for his command, was passing through a woodspasture. Presently he heard the voice of a man, evidently dying. There were thousands of men on every hand dead, or dying-many of them praying and commending their souls to God; but there was something so pathetic above the ordinary about this voice he was about to answer when some one else responded.

"Who are you?" he heard the sufferer ask.

"No matter, my boy," was the gentle response, "but I'm General Polk, a corps-commander. What can I do for you?" The voice was very soft and caressing.

"Do you hate the Rebels?" Evidently the dying man had not understood the name of the man who had responded to his call; or did not remember that General Polk was a great Confederate general.

"No, lad; I don't hate any one. I'm sorry if you do.”

"No, I don't-except the Rebels. Say-" There was a long pause; and when he spoke again his voice was much weaker. The sands of life were fast ebbing away. "S-say, can you pray?"

"Yes, dear boy. I'm what you call a preacher, the Bishop of Louisiana. Would you like for me to pray for you?"

"Y-yes, Gen-Bish-w'atever you are. I'm Billy Smith of the 11th Connecticut. I w-wish you'd pray for-for me. I g-guess I'm d-dy-"

Reverently the brave Confederate General (who was also a godly Bishop) commended the dying Federal soldier's soul to God. And as the "Rebel" General "talked with God," as friend with friend, peace came to the poor soldier's soulBilly Smith of the 11th Connecticut. The prayer ended, the Bishop-General addressed the sufferer, but there was no response. His soul had been wafted to the realms of the blest "where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest"-soothed and sustained by a "Rebel" general's prayer.

The following day Simonson was ordered to report at Rosecrans' office, Army Headquarters.

"My chief-of-staff, General Garfield," old "Rosey" said kindly, "has been telling me about you. He thinks you've material that ought to be utilized. Do you know anything about the manual of arms, and how to handle men?"

General Garfield laughingly broke in, "General, you should have seen him yesterday. I then said to myself, 'There's a better captain than many I could name.''

Simonson modestly detailed his meager military knowledge, and the even less experience he had had in commanding men.

"I like the way he talks, Garfield," turning to his chief-ofstaff. "What about Company K you were telling me about, a part of which this youngster actually did command a while yesterday afternoon?"

"Much depleted, I'm sorry to say, General. Hood almost annihilated it. What's left want this young man for their new captain-they've been to see me to-day. And by the way, General, you know their captain, Captain Goldthwaite, was among the killed yesterday; so that Company K must have another captain."

Again Rosecrans turned and kindly scrutinized the young lawyer. "Simonson-I believe that's your name-I'm going to make you a captain, and give you Company K."

"No, no," he expostulated. "I can't take it, won't have it! Give it to somebody else! Please, General, let me explain." It was impossible to doubt his sincerity.

"Garfield," said Rosecrans, humorously, "send out for a photographer. I want Simonson's picture. He's the first man I've met since the war broke out that doesn't want an office, or isn't jealous of his rank, or dissatisfied with his grade. Why, damn it all, Garfield, even we can't claim immunity. You're straining your hames for a major-general's commission, and I'm-why I'm trying to boss old Stanton, and run the whole War Department." Both generals laughed heartily.

Then, turning to Simonson, he kindly pointed out what he conceived to be his duty.

"But, General Rosecrans, I'm not qualified. I'm not here