It was not war, it was murder.
As each brigade emerged from the woods, from 50 to 100 guns opened upon it, tearing great gaps in its ranks; but the heroes pressed on and were shot down by reserves at the guns. It was not war, it was murder.
We were lavish of blood in those days, and it was thought to be a grand thing to charge a battery or an earth-work lined with infantry.
The vast army of McClellan spread out before me. The marching columns extended back as far as eye could see in the distance. It was a grand and glorious spectacle, and it was impossible to look at it without admiration.
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