We had been placed on picket at the foot
of Lookout Mountain, but we were five miles from that place now. If
I had tried to run in I couldn't. I had got separated from Sloan and
Johnson somehow; in fact, was waiting either for an advance of the
Yankees, or to be called in by the captain of the picket. I could see
the blue coats fairly lining Missionary Ridge in my head. The Yankees
were swarming everywhere. They were passing me all day with their dead
and wounded, going back to Chattanooga. No one seemed to notice me;
they were passing to and fro, cannon, artillery, and everything. I
was willing to be taken prisoner, but no one seemed disposed to do it.
I was afraid to look at them, and I was afraid to hide, for fear some
one's attention would be attracted toward me. I wished I could make
myself invisible. I think I was invisible. I felt that way anyhow.
I felt like the boy who wanted to go to the wedding, but had no shoes.
Cassabianca never had such feelings as I had that livelong day.
Say, captain, say, if yet my task be done?
And yet the sweeping waves rolled on,
And answered neither yea nor nay.
About two or three o'clock, a column of Yankees advancing to the attack
swept right over where I was standing.
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