Smith at last claims the prize. His
cheering troops send double canister from the regained batteries
into the gray columns of attack. General Sherman, at a deserted
house, where he has made his bivouac, paces the porch like a restless
tiger. The increasing firing on the left, tells him of this heavy
morning attack. A map spread on a table catches his eye from time
to time. The waiting crowd of orderlies and staff officers have,
one by one, dashed off to reform the lines or strengthen the left.
While the firing all along the line is everywhere ominous, the
roar on the left grows higher and higher. Out from the fatal woods
begin to stream weary squads of the wounded and stragglers. The
floating skulkers hover at the edge of the red tide of conflict.
Ha! A wounded aide dashes up with tidings of the ominous gap on the
left. That fearful sweep of Wheeler's cavalry to the rear is known
at last by the fires of burning trains. With a few brief words of
counsel, and a nod of his stately head, McPherson, the splendid
light of battle on his brow, gallops away to reform these broken
lines. The eye of the chief must animate his corps.
Hawk-eyed Sherman watches the glorious young general as he turns
into the forest.
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