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With the first puff of smoke a shell came screaming over the stockade. The second hit the wall, cutting off the timber and sending jagged splinters of wood flying like spears across the interior of the small enclosure. Every shot hit the wall and the cannon were too far away for the Michiganders' rifles to be effective. In a few minutes it was all over. The stockade was blown to smithereens. Of Baldwin's fifty men, forty-nine were dead or wounded. Regretfully, Frank Baldwin waved a towel as a flag of surrender. Out of the smoke came riding a small, dapper man in a neat gray uniform. Three stars surrounded by a wreath on his collar indicated his a rank as a general. "Lieutenant, this is the biggest piece of foolishness I have ever seen. I have not lost a man and your command has been wiped out. It is mere luck you aren't causality yourself. If you had surrendered, you would have saved a lot of good men from death and suffering." Saluting, Baldwin replied, "General, please read this paper. It is from my commanding officer and it orders me to hold this position until relieved. As yet, I have not been relieved."