General Frank Cheatham and General Loring tried to
form a line at Brentwood, but the line they formed was like trying to
stop the current of Duck river with a fish net. I believe the army
would have rallied, had there been any colors to rally to. And as the
straggling army moves on down the road, every now and then we can hear
the sullen roar of the Federal artillery booming in the distance.
I saw a wagon and team abandoned, and I unhitched one of the horses and
rode on horseback to Franklin, where a surgeon tied up my broken finger,
and bandaged up my bleeding thigh. My boot was full of blood, and my
clothing saturated with it. I was at General Hood's headquarters.
He was much agitated and affected, pulling his hair with his one hand
(he had but one), and crying like his heart would break. I pitied him,
poor fellow. I asked him for a wounded furlough, and he gave it to me.
I never saw him afterward. I always loved and honored him, and will ever
revere and cherish his memory. He gave his life in the service of his
country, and I know today he wears a garland of glory beyond the grave,
where Justice says "well done," and Mercy has erased all his errors and
faults.
I only write of the under _strata_ of history; in other words, the
_privates' history_--as I saw things then, and remember them now.
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