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Still onward we pressed, till our banners Swept out from Atlanta's grim walls, And the blood of the patriot dampened The soil where the traitor-flag falls; But we paused not to weep for the fallen, Who slept by each river and tree, Yet we twined them a wreath of the laurel, As Sherman marched down to the sea! Then sang we a song, etc.
Post No. 2 repeated this cry, and so it went around. One evening when our anxiety as to Atlanta was wrought to the highest pitch, one of the guards sang out: "Post numbah foah half past eight o'clock and Atlanta's gone t-o hell." The heart of every man within hearing leaped to his mouth. We looked toward each other, almost speechless with glad surprise, and then gasped out: "Did 'you hear THAT?"
Still onward we pressed, till our banners Swept out from Atlanta's grim walls, And the blood of the patriot dampened The soil where the traitor-flag falls; But we paused not to weep for the fallen, Who slept by each river and tree, Yet we twined them a wreath of the laurel, As Sherman marched down to the sea! Then sang we a song, etc.
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. Here, by the grave of his intrepid comrade, Henry Peyton reviews the past four years.
He fears, when Atlanta's refuge receives the beaten host, that the end is nigh. Bereft of news from his home, foreseeing the final collapse in Virginia, assured that the sea is lost to the South, the colonel's mood is daily sadder. His hungry eyes are wolfish in their steady glare. Only a soldier now. His flag is his altar of daily sacrifice.
The gray-stone building was in Atlanta's most central part on a narrow street paved with asphalt which sloped down from one of the main thoroughfares to the section occupied by the old passenger depot, the railway warehouses, and hotels of various grades. Considerable noise, despite the closed windows and doors, came in from the outside.
Post No. 2 repeated this cry, and so it went around. One evening when our anxiety as to Atlanta was wrought to the highest pitch, one of the guards sang out: "Post numbah foah half past eight o'clock and Atlanta's gone t-o hell." The heart of every man within hearing leaped to his mouth. We looked toward each other, almost speechless with glad surprise, and then gasped out: "Did 'you hear THAT?"
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.
Gordon gives an interesting and amusing description of the appearance his men made and the interest they excited in Atlanta's streets. These were filled with citizens, who looked upon the motley crew with a feeling in which approval was tempered by mirth. The spectacle of the march or rather the straggle of the mountaineers was one not soon to be forgotten.
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