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when we will get on the base is concerning the Seventh more particularly now than anything else. Only some place to breathe, that is all that is at present demanded.
Friday, 21st.—This morning, after having patiently waited their time, the Seventh is marched from the Fairchild and camped in the woods back from the landing. It is indeed refreshing and invigorating to get out where the fresh winds blow. Those of the Seventh who were fanatical on steamboat riding don't seem inclined to expatiate much upon its beauties after their thirteen day's ride and life on the Fairchild. None are found to cast a tear of regret on leaving their repulsive berths.
Saturday, 22d.—The fires are burning brightly in our camp this morning. All seem to have more genial looking faces than when on the steamboat. This evening we have dress parade, and as usual a large number of officers and soldiers from the surrounding camps assemble on our parade ground. What is the attraction ? Why so many congregated here ? inquires a general officer riding by. Those of the army of the Tennessee assembled tell him it is because the Seventh can drill.
Saturday, April 5th.—Nothing of note has occurred to relieve the monotony of camp life. There is now a large army concentrated here. Far away on the hills and in the ravines the tents and the soldiers are seen. Up to this time we have had considable rain. The roads and by-ways into the camps are cut up terribly. It is with difficulty that the Sev
enth keeps above mud and water. Vague rumors are afloat this evening to the effect that Albert Sidney Johnson is moving towards the Tennessee with his entire command; however, not much credit is attached to it. But we may anticipate days of desperate strife-days of fire and carnage in Tennessee, for no doubt there has been or is being a concentration of the rebel armies under Johnson and Beauregard, with headquarters at Corinth, Mississippi, twenty-five miles from Pittsburg Landing. Their hopes are no doubt beating high for revenge upon Grant's army, in consideration of the blow wielded against them, in those stormy days of battle around Fort Donelson.
The battle of Shiloh-The first day-The attack-The first posi
tion of the Seventh-The advanced position of the SeventhTheir danger-Their retreat-Their new line-The fearful tempest—The lull-Grant's last line Sunday evening—The victors of that last great line–The arrival of Bụell—The nightThe rain—The silent sleepers—The second day-The two armies fighting hand to hand-The enemy's retreat--The fall. ing of the curtain-The Seventh's camp upon the field-The fallen-List of casualties—The record—The Seventh's wounded -The living-Burying the dead-Our camp at Shiloh after the battle-Marching orders.
Sunday, the 6th of April, 1862.-It is now move ing—a beautiful Sabbath .morning. The dews have gone to heaven and the stars have gone to God; the sky is all inlaid with crimson, far away to the east. From behind the eastern hills the sun is peering; it is moving on its path. But ere it has long illumed the sky, war's dread tocsin is heard; the sullen roar of artillery breaks upon our ears, telling to us that the storm-king of battle would ride upon the banks of the Tennessee to-day. The army of the Tennessee springs to arms to meet the advancing columns of Albert Sidney Johnson. The pennons are now flying. Major Rowett and the Seventh are quickly buckled for the conflict. Her old, tattered and shotriven flag goes flying through the woods, and the regiment is soon in the conflict.
Their position is now behind a rail fence. Oh! the angry tempest that rolls around here! Belching cannons, shotted to the muzzle, are now plowing deep lanes in the Union ranks. How can we describe the sound of a storm of grape and canister, cutting their hellish paths through serried ranks of human beings. It is impossible. Many are the storms flying around the Seventh now. Thicker and faster they come, but those noble men who bore that riddled flag over Fort Donelson's walls, struggle on. Many have breathed quickly, and, trampled under their comrades' feet, have rolled in bloody agonies and now lie in quiet eternal slumber. The mighty armies are now struggling-struggling desperately for the life or death of a nation.
Fiercer and fiercer rages the battle. The great Grant is moving on the field with a mighty power. But fearful odds are against us, and the army
of the Tennessee is compelled to yield position after position. The Seventh has been forced to yield many points to-day; at one time being so far in the advance, we were left without support, and had it not been for the quick perception of our gallant Major, we would have been cut off and captured. Forming columns by divisions, we retreated from our critical position, and were compelled to fall back across an open field. It was a trying time. The harsh, fierce barking of the dogs of war made the earth tremble, as if in the midst of a convulsion. But there was no confusion in the Seventh-no panic there. Led.by the brave Rowett, they moved firmly, as if to say, that shot-pierced flag, tattered and torn, shall not go down to-day. Major Rowett, with the aid of
Captain Monroe, acting Major now form a new line with the Seventh. War's ruthless machine is moving with a relentless force.
It is now past noon. Confusion reigns; brave men are falling like rain drops. All seems darkseems that the Union army will be crushed by this wild sweep of treason. But on the crippled army of the Tennessee struggles; they still keep the flag up. It is now four o'clock. Step by step the army is being driven back towards the river. The old Union banner seems to be drooping in the wrathful storm, but by an almost superhuman effort the tide is checked. For a while there is a lull in the battle, but only to make preparations for the last desperate assault-an assault in which the enemy expect to see the old flag come down to their feet.
Buell is said to be approaching; he is hourly expected. Grant is now seen moving with a care-worn countenance, He moves amid the carnage to form his last grand line one-fourth mile from the Tennessee, where the advance is now driven. Grant's last line is formed. It is a line of iron, a line of steel, a wall of stout hearts, as firm, as powerful as Napoleon under like reverses ever formed in the days of his imperial power. It seems almost impossible for such a line to be formed at this hour s0 compact. On every available spot of earth an iron-lipped monster frowns. It is a trying moment, for Grant knows and his army knows that should this line be broken, the battle would be lost and the proud flag would be compelled to fall. At half-past