The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 94, August, 1865: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and PoliticsVarious
General
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 94, August, 1865: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
It was soon whispered about that we were to let the trains get ahead of
us, since it was necessary that they should move faster; and the Rebel
authorities, I presume, had decided to save their transportation, at the
risk even of their captives. One or other, then, it seemed likely, would
be taken. The Yankees were driving us before them, having reversed the
fortunes of the day, and, perhaps, might liberate the prisoners who so
impeded this retreat. We stood, I presume, for half an hour, drawn up in
a compressed mass upon the skirt of the highway, whilst, startled by
fear, a powerful task-master over teamsters, the late drowsy drivers
urged forward their toil-worn trains. It was seasonable, but I believed
that my time had not yet come. The deep shades encouraged me, but I
awaited the hour that I had hit upon. I thought for a moment of the
Adjutant, perhaps then ducking his head beneath the bushes, and
watching, with his heart beating time, the heavy mass by degrees moving
on. I trusted that the wheel of Fortune, whilst these other wheels were
moving Rebelward, had turned in his favor.
At a little after seven we again fell into line, not having allowed all
the teams to pass us; and as the same Fortune would have it, we left the
woods behind us, and marched between open meadows. It had now grown
quite dark. My face wore a look of anxiety as I noted the wide stretch
of open field beyond me.
But there were as anxious faces as mine among the groups of Rebel
officers who rode slowly along the lines. This was the chill season of
perturbation to the hot-blooded gentlemen. Some communications were
passing rapidly between the commander of our detachment and the
commander of the army. Things were not working satisfactorily to either.
Orderlies were dispatched to the front and to the rear, and the
air-blasting bugle was sounded on ahead, as if to chide the teamsters.
When we had marched up an ascent, and were on the brow of a low ridge,
we were halted, and then turned into an open field. It was decided,
apparently, that the rest of the train should pass us.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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