their Colonel say, "Come on!" It was always Kirke's way to say "Come" rather than "Go."
With a mighty roar they sprang from the shelter of the trees and dashed for the ridge. A terrific volley greeted them. With a crash like thunder, which echoed and reechoed through the hills, the Confederate fire was poured upon them. Had it not been that most of the men, firing down the hill, overshot the mark the "Lambs" would have been blown into eternity. As it was, many of them fell, but the rest plunged dauntlessly into the smoke through which the red of the flag could dimly be discerned waving in the advance.
Again the rifles of the brigade cracked out, and this time sent their messengers of death crashing full into the bosom of Kirke's men. This time the carnage was terrible; there were many dead, but the blood of the living was up: they would have charged a moving express train. They tore recklessly through the smoke towards the top, following the flag.
Before the rifles could be reloaded the "Lambs" were at the breastwork, Kirke still in the lead. To leap the log walls was the work of a moment. The brigade was ready for them. But now the carbines cracked again and again; there was a grim, ghastly, awful struggle on the top of that hill around the base of that flagstaff—then silence.
When it stopped the few "Lambs" who were left leaned panting on their carbines, blood dripping from the gun-stocks, surveying the tangled mass of dead and dying. The brigade had been annihilated.
Broadhead sprang to the staif to haul down the flag. He was nonplussed to find that there were no halliards, and that someone had evidently climbed a tree, which had been denuded of its limbs for the purpose, and nailed the flag there. He turned to look for Kirke, when, in the smoke that yet covered the field, he distinctly saw the man lift his revolver, pull its trigger, and blow out his brains.
In the confusion that prevailed after the little battle, fortunately, no one noticed the action but himself. He was utterly at a loss to fathom the meaning of the suicide, but he quickly resolved that no one else should know of it.
They buried the brigade with the dead "Lambs" around the foot of the staff, and Broadhead left the flag flying above them. He might have chopped down the tree and taken it, but it seemed fitting that the men who had defended it should have that last honor. The wind would whip it out in a day or two at best. Taking their wounded, they retraced their steps as they could, the surviving men thinking that Kirke had been killed in the action, an opinion which Broadhead's report carefully fostered. Broadhead carefully preserved Kirke's revolver, which he took from his dead hand, the letter, which he found in his breast pocket, his watch and sword, and a lock of his black, curly hair.
