The
awful truth that Grant has paved his bloody way to final victory
with one hundred thousand human bodies since he crossed the
Rapidan, makes the marrow cold in the bones of the very bravest.
Sixty thousand foes, forty thousand friends, are the astounding
death figures. As if the dark angel of death was not satisfied with
a carnage unheard of in modern times, Johnston, the old Marshal
Ney of the Confederacy, gives way, in command of the Southern army
covering Atlanta, to J.B. Hood. He is the Texan lion. Grizzled
Sherman laughs on the 18th of July, when his spies tell him Johnston
is relieved. "Replenish every caisson from the reserve parks;
distribute campaign ammunition," he says, briefly. "Hood would
assault me with a corporal's guard. He will fight by day or night.
I know him," Uncle Billy says.
The great Tecumseh feels a twinge as he whips out this verdict.
Hood's tactics are fearful. There are thousands of mute witnesses of
his own fatal rashness lying at Kenesaw, whose tongues are sealed
in death. On that sad clay, Sherman out-Hooded Hood. But the
blunt son of Ohio is right. He is a demi-god in intellect, and yet
he has the intuition of femininity. He has caught Hood's fighting
character at a glance.
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