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On the other hand, the Army of Tennessee felt that, with the aid from Joe Johnston, with Buckner, and the flower of Lee's Army to strengthen their ranks, no army on earth could stay them on the battlefield.
Buckley replied, "I went to sleep on the cot in the cabin and woke up with a headache in the stateroom. Mr. Baker was working over me as if I'd been shell-shocked on the battlefield. I think we both were sandbagged, for there were no bruises on our heads. We were locked in and probably would have been driven to the necessity of breaking the door open if Mr.
And now, as the two started down the hill, he could see in the dusty road that ran through the old battlefield Southern interest and sympathy taking visible shape.
Before the day was over the two had made friends, and Grisell had found him to be a gentle, scholarly youth, whom the defence of the Queen had snatched from his studies into the battlefield.
Three or four hours after his arrival on the battlefield the Emperor was overcome by an irresistible desire for sleep, and, foreseeing the issue of the day, slept on the side of a ravine, in the midst of the batteries of the Duke of Ragusa, until he was awaked with the information that the battle was gained.
It had already been read in England and America and all over Europe before, Jameson dropped it on the battlefield. If the subordinate's knuckles deserved a rap, the principal's deserved as many as a couple of them. That letter is a juicily dramatic incident and is entitled to all its celebrity, because of the odd and variegated effects which it produced.
"Then how about the cattle and things?" "What cattle?" "The cattle we've kept on it to escape the wild land tax? Aren't those all legally mine?" It sounded rapacious, I suppose, under the circumstances. It must have seemed like looting on a battlefield.
In fact, I know it, for I have drunk that same beer in the Spatenbräukeller in the Bayerstrasse, at all hours of the day and night, and always the ultimate thrill was missing. Good beer, to be sure, and a hundred times better than the common brews, even in Munich, but not perfect beer, not beer de luxe, not super-beer. It is the human equation that counts, in the bierhalle as on the battlefield.
It will be, quite certainly, the centre from which, in time to come, travellers will start to see the battlefield where such deeds were done by men of our race. It is a small straggling town built of red brick along a knot of cross-roads at a point where the swift chalk-river Ancre, hardly more than a brook, is bridged and so channeled that it can be used for power.
Since the figure remained motionless, Jeff made a headlong plunge, clutched the box, then ran half a mile without thinking to look back. Not for his life would he cross the battlefield again; so it was late when by wide circuit he approached the dwelling of his mistress.
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