On the 24th day of June, General Sherman ordered that an assault should be made at two points south of Kenesaw Mountain, on the 27th, giving three days notice for preparation and reconnaissance. Our division constituted the assaulting party on the centre. On the night of the 26th, a council of war was held at corps headquarters, and the final orders for the assault on the following day were given. The orders to regimental commanders were: for the regiments to "load and cap," but not to discharge a gun until they had reached the rebel breast works, then, as they went over them with a yell, to fire their pieces, and finish the work with the bayonet. These orders were given by the colonels of the regiments to the line officers, and through them transmitted to the non-commissioned officers and privates. The morning of the 27th broke clear and cloudless, and at daybreak the regiments moved to the assault, leaving all their camp equipments behind them, with a sufficient guard for their protection. We moved out to the summit of a hill, here the brigade and regimental commanders dismounted, leaving their horses in care of their orderlies. Down the slope we went until we reached a jack oak grove at the foot, where we formed our line of battle. At the far edge of this bunch of oaks was a wheat field, and on the other side of this field stretched the line of rebel breast works. Our line of battle was soon formed, and there we stood waiting for the signal to advance. At last off to our left a cannon belched forth its thunder, and as its echoes came rolling down the line, each man grasped his rifle with a tighter grip. Colonel McCook at the head of the brigade waved his sword and gave the command: "Attention battalions, charge bayonets," and with a rush and a cheer away we go. And now the battle commences. We have reached the wheat field, and at yon side are the rebel breast works. At the double quick we cross the field with a storm of lead and iron in our faces; men are falling on all sides; there goes McCook down—quickly following him, Harmon, who was bravely urging his men on, falls pierced through the heart. Captain Fellows, our brigade inspector, also falls to rise no more. See! the colors have disappeared, but only for a moment when again they wave; the color sergeant had been shot down. Lieutenant McClean, of Co "B," is hit and falls, so, also, sergeant Cunningham, and Captain Clark, of Co. "E." They are dropping as the leaves in the autumn, and oh! how that fire of hell beats in our faces. It is too much, the works cannot be carried by assault, and our line, mangled, torn and bleeding, falls back. But only for a short distance, however, when we again halt amid that never ceasing fire. Some of the boys engage the foe, while others, with tin cups and bayonets, burrow and dig in the ground to throw up protection for themselves. We are not whipped, if we have failed in our attempt, and thirty-five paces only is what we will yield to the rebels. Still the bullets, and the shells, and the solid shot fly, and still more brave boys are sealing with their life's blood their devotion to their country's flag. But why prolong the tale, the ground is soaked with blood; but with that love for the old flag which has floated so gallantly at our head over so many bloody fields, and under whose stars and stripes the weary and oppressed of every land have found a shelter, under whose protecting folds we have lived in peace and security, until driven by its enemies to war; with that love kindling in our breasts we stand ready to die, if need be, but never to dishonor its beauty and its grandeur.

The long day at last draws to a close, and night, welcome night, settles down upon us. To the weary and worn soldiers, night brought no repose, but like beavers we worked erecting breastworks to protect us on the morrow. The battle for the day is over. The cries of the wounded, and the desultory shot of a rifle, is all that is heard beyond the noise made by the soldiers in erecting their breast works. But there were deeds of heroism enacted on Kenesaw's rugged brow that day that have never been excelled on any battle field. Private James Knox, of Co. "B," had his thumb shot off early in the engagement, but refusing to go to the rear, pressed forward until a rebel ball felled him to the ground; rising on his hands and knees, for he could not walk, he turned his face to the enemy, and in that position crawled off the field, declaring he would never turn his back to the foe. 2nd Lieut. James McLean, also of Co. "B," was hit early in the fight, but pressed on in command of his company, until a ball, passing through his body, felled him to the ground. All night long we worked, and when the morning broke we felt secure, and were ready to renew the combat. But between our line and the rebels, lay our dead and some of our wounded. The lines were so close together, that stones were thrown by the rebels, severely wounding some of our men. Morning broke and revealed to the foe what we had done during the night. Firing at once commenced and was kept up all day. The stubble and leaves between the lines had taken fire, and that with the smoke from the guns, was making our situation very unpleasant. The dead, too were fast decaying, under the burning rays of that Georgia sun, and the most horrid stench filled the air. It was becoming unbearable, so Colonel Langley, who had, until the death of Harmon, been serving on the corps staff, but was now in command of his regiment, concluded to see if an armistice could be arranged in order to give us an opportunity to bury the dead, but not a white handkerchief, or white rag of any description, could be found; so raising a copy of the "Chicago Tribune," which he had in his pocket, he succeeded in his purpose, and an armistice of two hours was agreed upon, and the men poured over both of the lines of works. You would not think as you see them now, as they shake hands, and swap coffee for tobacco, and laugh and joke together like old friends, that a few moments before they had been seeking each others lives. But they are gathering up the dead; here comes a stretcher borne by two men, on it lays the body of Captain W. W. Fellows, once the commanding officer of Co. "C," but acting for some time previously as brigade inspector. Silently we follow after them. How we loved that man! an entire stranger to the writer a few short months previous, he had by the subtle magic of his nature charmed us. He was not only a brave officer, but a polished gentleman, always willing to help the needy, and always ready at the call of duty. Capt. Fellow's death, that bloody day at Kenesaw, was deeply mourned by us. We felt as if we had lost a near and dear friend; always with a kindly smile of greeting when we met, never, like so many others, defiling his mouth and disgracing his manhood by uttering vile oaths and blasphemies. We saw him on the morning of the assault before we moved from camp, and stopped for a moment to exchange greetings, little did we think for the last time. We buried him on the hill side where the first rays of Georgia's sun should shine upon his grave; and the wild flowers bloom above him, and the southern songster warble a requiem for the soldier from the Northland. Here, also, was buried Captain Marion Lee, and some others who had fallen in the strife. Requiescat in pace. Leaving the burial party to end their labors, we proceed up the road to find if possible our field hospital, where so many of our boys lie wounded. The road is flanked on either side by thick brush; going along we happened to look to our right, and see a sight that makes our blood stand still, so unexpected, and so awful is it. There, in that clump of hazel, lays the body of our colonel, where he had been carried directly after he fell. A sickening feeling creeps over us as we stand in the presence of the dead, whom we had seen such a short time before in full health and vigor. Yes, there he lay, his life ended, his heart's blood given for his country's good. Colonel Harmon was a christian man; what more can we say? A strict disciplinarian, he had the solicitude of a father for his regiment, and he wanted his men to feel that in him they had a friend who would look after their welfare. With one sad, lingering look, we tore ourself from the spot, with our heart stirred with deep emotion. But yonder is the hospital tent. The weather, as we have before stated, was intensely warm, and the hospital tents, or rather "flys," were stretched in such a manner that their sides were raised some two feet from the ground, thus giving a thorough circulation of air. We enter; there lay our poor fellows, and as they see us they shout out a welcome. These fellows near the entrance, are not so badly wounded as those farther on, so, returning their greeting with an assumed show of glee, we pass into the tent. And now we are in the midst of desperately wounded boys who are lying here, some of them, without a vestige of clothing on them on account of the heat, slowly dying. We feel sorry that we have come to the hospital, but the wish to do something in some way to help the poor lads, is uppermost in our thoughts. Here is 2nd Lieut. James McClain, with his negro servant (faithful fellow) sitting by him, fanning him. We kneel down by the lieutenant. We had been old acquaintances before we left home, consequently no undue stiffness of official ceremony could come between us. Poor Jim, he was drawing his breath in gasps; we saw that death had set his seal upon his brow, and with a sorrow at our heart that we believe was the deepest we ever felt, we said:

"Jimmy, is there anything we can do for you?" Opening his eyes, at the sound of our voice, and reaching out his hand, he exclaimed:

"Oh, Bob! I am so glad to see you."

But our emotions overcame us, and in spite of all we could do, the tears would come. But we checked them as soon as possible and again repeated our question. Opening his eyes with his breath coming in convulsive gasps, he said:

"Bob—write—to—my—mother,—tell her,—that I died—doing my duty."

Oh! if we could have had at that moment a heart of stone, so that we could have talked to him, but it was too much: however we managed to whisper to him a hope that he might get well, but no, he knew better, he knew that his life was fast drawing to a close, and moving his head slowly, he replied:

"No, Bob, I am dying."

We could not stand it and gently stooping over him, we kissed him on the forehead, and turned to the next man lying beside him, who proved to be orderly sergeant Benjamin F. Bonebrake. Ben presented a terrible appearance, he had been wounded in the head, and the blood had streamed down over his face and whiskers and over his once white shirt bosom, and dried there, giving him a ghastly appearance.

"Do you want anything, Ben?"

"Yes, I would like to have my face washed."

Oh! how quiet and gentle these poor boys were, no complaining, no harsh words, but there they lay, bearing their pain with true heroism. "All right," we reply, glad to be able to get outside for a moment, and away we went to the brigade hospital steward, with whom we were acquainted, for what we needed. We found him and on the strength of acquaintanceship, procured from him a hospital bucket with some warm water and a sponge, and before we left him we had coaxed him to give us a clean shirt for Ben out of the sanitary supplies he had on hand. Rejoicing at our success, we hastened back, and proceeded to make Ben more comfortable; we washed his face, combed his hair and whiskers, and helped him on with the clean shirt. With a grateful acknowledgement he lay back in his place. Next to him was sergeant Wash. Cunningham, good natured, free hearted Wash.; a man of large and powerful frame, he had received a rifle ball through the left arm; poor fellow he had gotten down in such a shape, that his wound was paining him, and in reply to our question as to what we could do for him, he said: "Nothing, only if you could help me to raise up a little." We looked at his massive form and felt afraid to touch him, for fear of giving him pain; we told him so, and he replied: "All right, Rob, I can stand it." We wanted to get away, we were feeling sick and were afraid to stay longer, but there was one more boy whom we must find before we went, and this was Patrick Sullivan of Co. "G." We searched and searched and at length we found him, lying on his back, on his rubber blanket without a stitch of clothing on him; he was lying in a pool of his own blood, with his eyes closed, and his face pale and bloodless; we thought at first he was dead, but kneeling down by him, we spoke his name. The heavy eyelids opened, and with a smile on his countenance, he reached us his hand, we grasped it and put the question:

"Can we do any thing for you, Patsey?" For a second there was no reply, and then his lips opened and he said:

"Oh! Rob, if I could only sleep; I want to sleep but can't, the doctor won't pay any attention to me, and there is such a noise."

He was a little delirious, and the roar of the cannon and the musketry was still in his ears. But unloosing his hand we started out to find the surgeon. We ran across him and told him what we wanted, that one of the boys had been overlooked, and needed help, would he not come to him; this with an impassioned force. He would come, he replied, as soon as he could, but his hands were full. "No, doctor," we pleaded, "come now, come now," and catching hold of his coat we would not let him go. Dr. Hooten, our brigade surgeon, was a man of tender heart, and he saw we were terribly in earnest. "Where is the boy," he said. We quickly turned and conducted him to Patsey's side. Bending over him he examined him; he had been shot through the lungs. Getting up he motioned for us to follow. "Go to the steward," he said, "and tell him to mix you some morphine and whisky," telling me the right amount of each. I hurriedly left him and was soon returning with the medicine. Reaching his side I knelt down and told him to open his mouth. Inserting the tube of the hospital tin between his teeth, I gently poured the medicine down his throat, but it had no sooner touched his stomach than he vomited it up. I repeated the dose and had the satisfaction at last of seeing him retain it. Drying up the blood and wet in which he was laying with some old rags, we left him with the assurance that he would soon be sleeping. Having been away now from our command for a long time, we felt we must hurry back, however much we felt disposed to stay and do what we could for our boys, so going outside of the fly, we started back to the command. But our mind was torn and rent with sad feelings. Yonder under that hospital fly, lay boys whom we tenderly loved, wounded and helpless, breathing, slowly breathing their lives away, while others suffering pain almost unbearable, lay with teeth clenched, and knitted brows, suffering on in silence. As we slowly walked along how we strove for the mastery of our feelings, but we could not help it, and in spite of all we could do, we cried like a child. Sitting down by a tree until we had partially overcome our sorrow, we arose and again started for the company, while ringing in our ears were the words: "Vengeance is mine I will repay, saith the Lord." How the memory of those days come surging back upon us as we sit at home penning these lines. The scene is as fresh in our memory as if it had happened only yesterday, and the events of those times comes sweeping over us like a flood. But the boys we loved so well, our neighbor lads at home, have long ere this mouldered into dust in their southern graves, can we doubt for a moment that their souls are happy? that they are now singing the happy songs of angels around the great white throne on high? No! No! doubt cannot enter, and so we feel that they are better off than we. All glory to their memories. And such is the tale of the assault on the rebel lines in front of Kenesaw. How many homes it darkened by the shadow it cast upon their firesides. The 27th day of June, 1864, will long be remembered by many families in Champaign and Vermilion counties.