A grim look settles on the general's face. He runs
his eye over the map. As the tiger's approach is heralded by the
clatter of the meaner animals, so from out that forest the human
debris tell of Hood's battle hammer crashing down on that left "in
air." Is there yet time to reform a battle, now fighting itself in
sudden bloody encounters? All is at haphazard. A sigh of relief.
McPherson is there. His ready wit, splendid energy, and inspiring
presence are worth a thousand meaner souls, in the wild maelstrom
of that terrible July day.
Old Marshal Tecumseh, with unerring intuition, knows that the
creeping skirmishers have felt the whole left of his position. With
the interior lines and paths of the forest to aid, if anything has
gone wrong, if gap or lap has occurred, then on those unguarded
key-points and accidental openings, the desperate fighters of the
great Texan will throw their characteristic fierceness. Atlanta's
tall chimneys rise on the hills to the west. There, thousands, with
all at stake, listen to the rolling notes of this bloody battle.
High in the air, bursting shells with white puffs light up the
clouds of musketry smoke. Charging yells are borne down the wind,
with ringing answering cheers.
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