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!"