Of course we
knew that when the movements in progress in the country below were
sufficiently advanced there would probably be lively work in effecting a
passage of the river in the face of the formidable force which was
guarding the ford two or three miles in our front. In fact, for some
days we had been preparing for the effort, and up in a sluggish bayou
the best of our mechanics were industriously at work fashioning a rude
scow out of such material as axes could get from the native forests. In
this craft, if it could be made to float, a select party was to cross
the river some foggy morning, while the enemy were intently watching the
ford below, and then, while the chosen few were being gloriously shot on
the other side, the rest of us were to attempt the waist-deep, crooked
ford.
For the time we were, however, as has been said, enjoying the cream of
army life. The nights were chilly, though the days were hot and the clay
roads dusty. The mornings were glorious with their bracing fresh air,
their blue mists clinging about far-off Lookout Mountain, and even
hiding the top of Waldron's Ridge at our backs, and their bright
sunshine, which came flooding over the distant heights of Georgia and
North Carolina. The wagon-tracks winding among the low, mound-like hills
which filled the valley from the base of the ridge to the river were as
smooth and gravelly as a well-kept private roadway, and an
ambulance-ride along their tortuous courses was a most enjoyable
recreation in those fine September days of 1863.
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