Colonel Valois and
Major Peyton share their frugal meal. The rattle of picket shots
grows into a steady, teasing firing. Well-instructed outpost officers
are carrying on this noisy mockery.
Massed behind the circling lines of Atlanta, within the radius of
a mile and a half, the peerless troops who DOUBT Hood's ability,
but who ADORE his dauntless bravery, are silently massed for the
great attack.
The officers of Valois' regiment, summoned by the adjutant, receive
their Colonel's final instructions. His steady eye turns fondly on
the men who have been his comrades, friends, and devoted admirers.
"Gentlemen," he says, "we will have serious work to-day. I shall
expect you to remember what Georgia hopes from Louisiana."
Springing to his saddle, he doffs his cap as the head of the regiment
files by, in flank movement. The lithe step, steady swing, and
lightly poised arms proclaim matchless veterans. They know his
every gesture in the field. He is their idol.
As Peyton rides up, he whispers (for the colors have passed), "Henry,
if you lead the regiment out of this battle, I ask you never to
forget my last wishes." The two friends clasp hands silently. With
a bright smile, whose light lingers as he spurs past the springy
column, he takes the lead, falcon-eyed, riding down silently into
the gloomy forest-shades of death.
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