weary march from Nashville, and we were sure now of a few days' rest and quiet. A few minutes after midday we reached Savannah, and were ordered at once into camp. By this time the sky had cleared, the sun was shining brightly, though, as it seemed, with an effort; the wind, which had been freshening ever since morning, was blowing strong and settled from out the blue west, and the earth was drying rapidly. The Sixth Ohio and a comrade regiment of the Tenth Brigade pitched their tents in an old and well-cleared camping ground, on a gently sloping rise looking toward the town from the southeastward; a little too far from the river to quite take in, in its prospect, the landing with its flotilla of transports and the gunboats which they told us were lying there, yet not so far but we could easily discern the smoke floating up black and dense from the boats' chimney stacks, and hear the long-drawn, labored puffs of the escape pipes, and the shrill signals of the steam whistles. Altogether our camping ground was eligible, dry, and pleasant. It was on Saturday, the fifth day of April, 1862, that the Fourth division, being the advance corps of the Army of the Ohio, came thus to Savannah, and so was brought within actual supporting distance of the forces under General Grant at Pittsburg Landing, twelve miles up the farther bank of the Tennessee. General Crittenden's division encamped that evening three hours' march behind us. Still farther in the rear were coming in succession the divisions of McCook, Wood, and Thomas. It was well that such reenforcements were at hand; otherwise, unless we disregarded the best-established laws of probabilities in deciding the question, the Army of the Tennessee was even then a doomed one, and the story of Shiloh must have gone to the world a sad, tragic tale of the most crushing defeat which had ever fallen upon an army since the days of Waterloo. No mean service, then, was rendered the national cause, and all which that cause will stand out as the embodiment of, in all the ages to come, when Shiloh was saved, and Treason was forced to turn, faint, and stagger away from the field to which it had rushed with a fiend's exultant eagerness, having there met only its own discomture. The meed due for that service is a coronal of glory, that may never, probably, be claimed as the desert of any _one_ individual exclusively; nor is it likely that the epitaph, enchiselled upon whose tombstone soever it might be, 'Here lies the saviour of Shiloh,' would pass one hour unchallenged. Yet impartial history can scarcely be at fault in recognizing as preeminent the part taken by one officer, in the events, whose results, at least, permit so much of eulogy to be written, with other significance than merely that of a wretched burlesque. That officer was General Nelson, the commander of our own division. Iron-nerved, indomitable, willfull, disdainful of pleasing with studied