three in the afternoon
A grey-haired officer -- Heintzleman -- seated sideways in his saddle upon a hillock , appealing , cheering , commanding , was conspicuous for his gallant bearing . The 33d , hotly pushed , fell back into the curving wood , only to emerge again and bear down upon the prize of the guns . The whole of the First Brigade was now in action and the plateau of the Henry Hill roared like the forge of Vulcan when it welded the armour of Mars . It was three in the afternoon of midmost July . There arose smoke and shouts and shrieks , the thunder from the Mathews Hill of the North 's uncrippled artillery , and from the plateau the answering thunder of the Southern , with the under song , incessant , of the muskets . Men 's tongues clave to the roofs of their mouths , the sweat streamed forth , and the sweat dried , black cartridge marks were about their lips , and their eyes felt metallic , heated balls distending the socket . There was a smell of burnt cloth , of powder , of all heated and brazen things , indescribable , unforgettable , the effluvia of the battlefield .