THE STOLEN MARCH
John Vaughan's entrance into Atlanta was simple. His credentials from
Richmond were perfect. His exit proved to be a supreme test of his
nerve.
The two lines of siege and battle stretched in wide semicircle for miles
over the ragged wood tangled hills about the little Gate City of the
South.
Sherman had fought his way from Chattanooga one hundred and fifty miles
since May with consummate skill. His march had been practically a
continuous series of battles, and yet his losses had been small compared
to General Grant's. In killed, wounded and prisoners he had only lost
thirty-two thousand men in four months. The Confederate losses had been
greater--at least thirty-five thousand.
Hood, the new Southern Commander, had given him battle a month before
and suffered an overwhelming defeat, losing eight thousand men, Sherman
but thirty-seven hundred. The Confederate forces had retired behind the
impregnable fortifications of Atlanta and Sherman lay behind his
trenches watching in grim silence.
The pickets at many places were so close together they could talk. John
Vaughan attempted to slip through at night while they were chaffing one
another.
He lay for an hour in the woods near the Southern picket line watching
his chance. The men were talking continuously.
"Why the devil don't you all fight?" a grey man called.
"Uncle Billy says it's cheaper to flank you and make you Johnnies run to
catch up with us."
"Yes--damn you, and we've got ye now where ye can't do no more flankin'.
Ye got ter fight!"
"Trust Uncle Billy for that when the time comes----"
"Yes, and we've got Billy Sherman whar we want him now. We're goin' to
blow up every bridge behind ye and ye'll never see home no more----"
"Uncle Billy's got duplicates of all your bridges fast as ye blow 'em
up."
"All right, we're goin' ter blow up the tunnels through the
mountains----"
"That's nothin'--we got duplicates to all the tunnels, too!"
John Vaughan began to creep toward the Federal lines and muskets blazed
from both sides. He dropped flat on the ground and it took two hours to
crawl to a place of safety.
He felt these lines next morning where they were wider apart and found
them too dangerous to attempt. The pickets, at the point he approached,
were in an ugly mood and a desultory fire was kept up all day. The men
had bunched up two together and entrenched themselves, keeping a deadly
watch for the men in blue. He stood for half an hour close enough to see
every movement of two young pickets who evidently had some score to pay
and were hunting for their foe with quiet, deadly purpose.
"There's a Yank behind that clump," said one.
"Na--nothin' but a huckleberry bush," the other replied.
"Yes there is, too. We'll decoy and pot him. I'll get ready now and you
raise your cap on a ramrod above the hole. He'll lift his head to fire
and I'll get him."
The speaker cautiously slipped his musket in place and drew a bead on
the spot. His partner placed his hat on his ramrod and slowly lifted it
a foot above their hiding place.
The hat had scarcely cleared the pile of dirt before the musket flashed.
"I got him! I told you he was there!"
John turned from the scene with a sense of sickening horror. He would
die for his country, but he hoped he would not be called on to kill
again.
He made a wide detour and attempted to cross the lines five miles
further from the city and walked suddenly into a squad of grey soldiers
in command of a lieutenant.
The officer eyed him with suspicion.
"What's your business here, sir?" he asked sharply.
"Looking over the lines," John replied casually.
"So I see. That's why I asked you. Show your pass."
"Why, I haven't one."
"I thought not. You're a damned spy and you'd just as well say your
prayers. I'm going to hang you."
The men pressed near. Among them was a second lieutenant, a big,
strapping, quiet-looking fellow.
"You've made a mistake, gentlemen," John protested.
"I'm a newspaper man from Atlanta. The chief sent me out to look over
the lines and report."
"It's a lie. We've forbidden every paper in town to dare such a
thing----"
John smiled:
"That's just why my office sent me, I reckon."
"Well, he sent you once too often----"
He turned to his orderly:
"Get me a bridle rein off my horse."
In vain John protested. The Commander shook his head:
"It's no use talking. You've passed the deadline here to-day. This is a
favorite spot for scouts to cross. I'm not going to take any chances;
I'm going to hang you."
"Why don't you search me first?"
He was sure that his dangerous message was so skillfully sewed in the
soles of his shoes they would not be discovered.
"I can search you afterwards," was the laconic reply.
He quickly tied the leather strap around his neck and threw the end of
it over a limb. The touch of his hand and the rough way in which he had
tied the leather stirred John Vaughan's rage to boiling point. All sense
of danger was lost for the moment in blind anger. He turned suddenly and
faced his executioner:
"This is a damned outrage, sir! Even a spy is entitled to a trial by
drumhead court-martial!"
"Yes, that's what I say," the big, quiet fellow broke in.
"I'm in command of this squad!" thundered the lieutenant.
"I know you are," was the cool answer, "that's why this outrage is going
to be committed."
The executioner dropped the rein and faced his subordinate:
"You're going to question my authority?"
"I've already done it, haven't I?"
A quick blow followed. The quiet man, in response, knocked his commander
down and the men sprang on them as they drew their revolvers.
John Vaughan, with a sudden leap, reached the dense woods and in five
minutes was inside Sherman's lines.
The bridle rein was still around his neck and the blue picket helped him
untie the ugly knot.
"I've had a close call," he panted, with a glance toward the woods.
"You look it, partner. You'll be wantin' to see General Sherman, I
guess?"
"Yes--to headquarters quick--you can't get there too quick to suit me."
He had recovered his composure before reaching the farm house where
General Sherman and his staff were quartered.
The day was one of terrific heat--the first of September. The
President's description of the famous fighter and the tremendous
responsibility which was now being placed on his shoulders had roused
John's curiosity to the highest pitch.
The General was seated in an arm chair in the yard under a great oak.
His coat was unbuttoned and he had tilted back against the tree in a
comfortable position reading a newspaper. His black slouch hat was
pulled far down over his face.
John saluted:
"This is General Sherman?"
"Yes," was the quick, pleasant answer as the tall, gaunt form slowly
rose.
John noted his striking and powerful personality--the large frame,
restless hazel eyes, fine aquiline nose, bronzed features and cropped
beard. His every movement was instinct with the power of perfect
physical manhood, forty-four years old, the incarnation of health and
wiry strength.
"I come from Washington, General," John continued, "and bear a special
message from the President."
"From the President! Oh, come inside then."
The tall figure moved with quick, nervous energy. In ten minutes
couriers were dashing from his headquarters in every direction.
At one o'clock that night the big movement of his withdrawal from the
siege lines began. He had no intention of hurling his men against those
deadly trenches. He believed that with a sure, swift start undiscovered
by the Confederates he could by a single battle turn their lines at
Jonesboro, destroy the railroad and force General Hood to evacuate
Atlanta.
His sleeping men were carefully waked. Not a single note from bugle or
drum sounded. The wheels of the artillery and wagons were wrapped with
cloth and every sound muffled.
Through pitch darkness in dead silence the men were swung into marching
lines. The moving columns could be felt but not seen. Each soldier
followed blindly the man before. Somewhere in the black night there must
be a leader--God knew--they didn't. They walked by faith. The wet
grounds, soaked by recent rains, made their exit easier. The sound of
horses' hoofs and tramping thousands could scarcely be heard.
The ranks were strung out in long, ragged lines, each man going as he
pleased. Something blocked the way ahead and the columns butted into one
another and pinched the heels of the men in front.
In their anger the fellows smarting with pain forgot the orders for
silence. A storm of low muttering and growling rumbled through the
darkness.
"What 'ell here!"
"What's the matter with you----"
"Keep off my heels!"
"What 'ell are ye runnin' over me for?"
"Hold up your damned gun----"
"Keep it out of my eye, won't you?"
"Damn your eye!"
They start again and run into a bog of mud knee deep cut into mush by
the artillery and wagons which have passed on.
The first men in line were in to their knees and stuck fast before they
could stop the lines surging on in the dark. They collide with the
bogged ones and fall over them. The ranks behind stumble in on top of
the fallen before word can be passed to halt.
The night reeks with oaths. The patient heavens reverberate with them.
The mud-soaked soldiers damned with equal unction all things visible and
invisible on the earth, under it and above it. They cursed the United
States of America and they damned the Confederate States with equal
emphasis and wished them both at the bottom of the lowest depths of the
deepest pit of perdition.
As one fellow blew the mud from his mouth and nose he bawled:
"I wish Sherman and Hood were both in hell this minute!"
"Yes, and fightin' it out to suit themselves!" his comrade answered.
On through the black night the long blue lines crept under lowering
skies toward their foe, the stern face of William Tecumseh Sherman
grimly set on his desperate purpose.