On his way to a self-appointed exile, the Virginian has seen the
wasted fields, blackened ruins, and idle disheartened communities
of the conquered, families brought to misery, and the young
arms-bearing generation blotted out. Hut and manor-house have been
licked up by the red torch of war. The hollow-eyed women, suffering
children, and dazed, improvident negroes, wander around aimlessly.
Bridges, mills and factories in ruins tell of the stranger's torch,
and the crashing work of the artillery. Tall, smokeless chimneys
point skywards as monuments of desolation.
Bowed in defeat, their strongholds are yet occupied by the
blue-coated victors. All that is left of the Southern communities
lingers in ruined homes and idle marts. They now are counting the
cost of attempted secession, in the gloom of despair.
The land is one vast graveyard. The women who mourn husbands and
lovers stray over fields of strife, and wonder where the loved one
sleeps. Friend and foe, "in one red burial blent," are lying down
in the unbroken truce of death.
Atlanta's struggle against the restless Sherman has been only
wasted valor, a bootless sacrifice. Her terrific sallies, lightning
counter-thrusts, and final struggles with the after-occupation, can
be traced in the general desolation, by every step of the horrible
art of war.
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