We were right upon the Yankee line on the Wilkerson turnpike.

The Yankees were shooting our men down by scores.

A universal cry was raised, "You are firing on your own men." "Cease firing, cease firing," I hallooed; in fact, the whole skirmish line hallooed, and kept on telling them that they were Yankees, and to shoot; but the order was to cease firing, you are firing on your own men.
Captain James, of Cheatham's staff, was sent forward and killed in his own yard.

We were not twenty yards off from the Yankees, and they were pouring the hot shot and shells right into our ranks; and every man was yelling at the top of his voice, "Cease firing, you are firing on your own men; cease firing, you are firing on your own men." Oakley, color-bearer of the Fourth Tennessee Regiment, ran right up in the midst of the Yankee line with his colors, begging his men to follow.
I hallooed till I was hoarse, "They are Yankees, they are Yankees; shoot, they are Yankees." The crest occupied by the Yankees was belching loud with fire and smoke, and the Rebels were falling like leaves of autumn in a hurricane.
The leaden hail storm swept them off the field.

They fell back and re-formed.