A council of war was held.  Thompson was fearful of our left; a gang of rebels might creep through the woods and take us; we were but sixty yards from the woods.  Willis had confidence that our line could protect us from such a dash; “they would kill every man of ’em before they could git to us,” To this Thompson replied that if the rebels should again get the upper hand, and make our men afraid to show their heads, the rebels could come on us from the woods without great danger.  Willis admitted that Thompson had reason, but did not think the rebels had yet found us out; at any rate, they would be afraid to come so near our strong skirmish-line; so for his part, he wasn’t thinkin’ of the left; the right was the place of danger—­what was down this gully nobody knew; the rebels might sand a force up it, but not yet, for they didn’t know we were here.

Again a rebel shell howled above, and again a volley from the front was heard as bullets sang over us, and our men behind us became silent.

We sprang to place, every eye on watch, every musket in its port-hole.

“Don’t waste a shot, men,” says Willis; “we’re not goin’ to have another chance like that.  Take it in order from right to left.  Berwick first.  Wait till a man’s body shows; don’t shoot at a head—­”

I had fired—­Thompson fired immediately after.  He had seen that my shot missed.  Again the musketry opened behind us, and both sides pegged away for a while.  Thompson claimed that he had hit his man.

Suddenly a loud rap was heard on one of the sand-bags,—­one of the bags between Willis and Holt,—­a bullet had gone through and into the wall of the ravine behind us.  Willis fired.

“Damnation!” says he, “I believe they see us.”

Yet it was possible that this was an accident; Holt fired, and then Freeman, and it became my turn again.

That bullet which had become entirely through the sand-bag and buried itself deeply in the ground, gave me trouble.  I did not believe that an ordinary musket had such force, and I doubted whether an Enfield had it.  The rebels were getting good arms from England.  It might be that some man over there had a Whitworth telescope rifle; if so he had detected us perhaps—­a telescope would enable him to do it.  I said nothing of this speculation, but watched.  Rebel bullets continued to fly over.  I saw a man as low as his waist and fired; almost at the same moment my sand-bag was struck—­the second one on my right, which protected that flank, and which the bullet, coming from the left oblique, struck endwise; the bullet passed through, the length, of the bag and went on into the wall of the gully.  I sprang back and caught up the spade.

“What’s up, Jones?” asked Willis.

“I’ll report directly, Sergeant.”

I dug at least two feet before I found the bullet; it was a long, leaden cylinder, with, a rounded point—­not bigger than calibre 45 I guessed.  This was no Enfield bullet.  I handed it to Willis; he understood.