NASHVILLE
A few more scenes, my dear friends, and we close these memoirs. We march
toward the city of Nashville. We camp the first night at Brentwood.
The next day we can see the fine old building of solid granite, looming
up on Capitol Hill--the capitol of Tennessee. We can see the Stars and
Stripes flying from the dome. Our pulse leaps with pride when we see the
grand old architecture. We can hear the bugle call, and the playing of
the bands of the different regiments in the Federal lines. Now and then
a shell is thrown into our midst from Fort Negley, but no attack or
demonstrations on either side. We bivouac on the cold and hard-frozen
ground, and when we walk about, the echo of our footsteps sound like the
echo of a tombstone. The earth is crusted with snow, and the wind from
the northwest is piercing our very bones. We can see our ragged soldiers,
with sunken cheeks and famine-glistening eyes. Where were our generals?
Alas! there were none. Not one single general out of Cheatham's division
was left--not one. General B. F. Cheatham himself was the only surviving
general of his old division. Nearly all our captains and colonels were
gone. Companies mingled with companies, regiments with regiments,
and brigades with brigades.
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