Will the rush come to-day?
No; the hours wear away. The night brings quiet along the lines.
Though a red harvest lies on the field, it is not the crowning
effort of the entire enemy. It is only a rattling day of uneasy,
hot-tempered fight.
But the awful morrow is to come. Sherman soon divines the difficulty
of fathoming the Texan's real designs. Hood is familiar with the
ground. Drawing back to the lines of Atlanta, Hood crouches for
a desperate spring. The ridges of the red clay hills, with little
valleys running to the Chattahoochee in the west, and Ocmulgee
in the east, cover his manoeuvres. Corn and cotton patches, with
thick forests between, lie along the extended front. A tangled
undergrowth masks the entire movements of the lurking enemy.
Tireless Sherman, expectant of some demoniac rush, learns that the
array before him is under Hood, Hardee, and the audacious cavalry
leader, Wheeler. Stewart's and Smith's Georgian levies are also in
line.
Every disposition is made by the wary antagonists. Sherman,
eagle-eyed and prompt to join issue, gains a brief repose before
the gray of morning looses the fires of hell. McPherson, young and
brilliant, whose splendid star is in its zenith, firmly holds his
exposed lines along the railroad between two valleys.
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