But on this day of which I now write, we can see in plain view more than
a thousand Yankee battle-flags waving on top the red earthworks, not
more than four hundred yards off. Every private soldier there knew that
General Hood's army was scattered all the way from Jonesboro to Atlanta,
a distance of twenty-five miles, without any order, discipline, or spirit
to do anything. We could hear General Stewart, away back yonder in
Atlanta, still blowing up arsenals, and smashing things generally,
while Stephen D. Lee was somewhere between Lovejoy Station and Macon,
scattering. And here was but a demoralized remnant of Cheatham's corps
facing the whole Yankee army. I have ever thought that Sherman was a
poor general, not to have captured Hood and his whole army at that time.
But it matters not what I thought, as I am not trying to tell the ifs and
ands, but only of what I saw. In a word, we had everything against us.
The soldiers distrusted everything. They were broken down with their
long days' hard marching--were almost dead with hunger and fatigue.
Every one was taking his own course, and wishing and praying to be
captured. Hard and senseless marching, with little sleep, half rations,
and lice, had made their lives a misery.
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