“Lieutenant-General J.B. Hood has been commissioned to the temporary rank of general under the late law of Congress. I am directed by the Secretary of War to inform you that, as you have failed to arrest the advance of the enemy to the vicinity of Atlanta, and express no confidence that you can defeat or repel him, you are hereby relieved from the command of the Army and Department of Tennessee, which you will immediately turn over to General Hood. “S. COOPER, _Adjutant and Inspector-General_.” Hardee, coming presently to headquarters, was shown the telegram. Johnston sat writing. Several of his staff were in waiting, one with pale face and set lips, another with eyes that winked back the tears. Hardee read. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “A thing may be both unbelievable and a fact,” said Johnston, writing. “Well, I’ve got my wound. It’s pretty deep—so deep that I scarcely feel it.” He rose from the table and going to the window stood looking out at Antares, red in the heavens. “I have sent out the orders transferring the command,” he said. “It’s a strange world, Hardee.” “Sometimes I think it’s a half-crazy one, sir,” said Hardee, with a shaking voice. “I know what the army’s going to think about it—” “I wish as little said as possible,” said Johnston. “It is the only way to take—wounds.” He came back to the table, sat down, and began to write. “There are certain memoranda of plans—” Through the window came a sound of horses stopping at the door, followed by a noise of steps in the hall. “Here is General Hood,” said Johnston, and rose.