The National tribune., 1881-09-03
THREE NOVEMBER DAYS-COntnued from Page 3.

THREE NOVEMBER DAYS-COntinued from Page 3.
there is nobody to load them. Light and heavy
artillery do not belong to the winged kingdom
Two infantrymen claiming to be old artillerists
volunteer Granger turns captain of the guns
and-right about wheel i'm moment they are
growing after the flying enemy. [ say flying,
but this is figurative. The many run like
Spanish merinoes, but the few fight like lions at
bay; they load and fire as they retreat; they are
fairly scorched out of position. 1t was so where
Turchin struck them and so where Wood and
Sheridan gave them the iron glove. Colonel
Harker is slashing away with his sabre in ring
of foes Down goes his horse under him; they
have him on the hip; one of them is taking de-
liberate aim, when up rushes Lieutenant john
son. of the Forty-second Illinois, caps pistol
to one ear and rOars in at the other, Who the
HI are You shooting at?" The fellow drops
his piece, gasps out. Il surrender" and the next
instant the gallant lieutenant falls sharply
wounded. He is a "rOll-of-honOr" officer straight
up from the ranks. A little German in Woods
division is pierced like the lid of pepper-box,
but is neither dead nor wounded "See here"
he says rushing up to a comrade, "a pullet hit
te preech of my gun,-a pullet i'll mine booklet
pook-a pullet in mine goat-tail -dey shoots
me three. five dime. and by tam / gives dem
HI yeti"
But / can render You no idea OF the battle
caldron that boiled on the plateau. An incident,
here and there, I have given you, and you must
fill out the picture for yourself. Dead soldiers
lay thick around Bragg's headquarters and along
the ridge Scabbards, broken arms artillery
horses wrecks of gun-carriages, bloody garments,
strewed the scene: and. tread lightly, o true
hearted, the boys in blue are lying there; no
more the sounding charge: no more the brave
wild cheer: aud never for them, sweet as the
breath of new-mown hay in the old home fields,
"the Soldiers Return from the War" A little
waif of drummer-boy, somehow dritted up the
mountain in the surge lies there, his pale face
upward, a blue spot on his breast.
MUFFLE HIS DRUM
for the poor child and his mother.
With the recedng flight and swift pursuit the
battle died away in murmurs far down the val
lev Of the Chicamauga: Sheridan was again in
the saddle. and with his command squirting on
after the enemy. Tall columns of smoke We're
rising at the left. The enemy were burning a
train of stores a mile long. In the exploding
caissons we had the cloud by day" and now
were having the pillar Of fire by night The
sun the golden dish of the scales that balance
day and night. had hardly gone down, when up,
bevond Mission Ridge. rose the silver side for
that night it was full moon. The troubled day
was done
The ardor of the men had been quenchless:
there had been three days of fitful fever and
after it. alas, a multitude slept we'll The work on
the right left and centre cost full four thousand
killed and wounded. There is tremble Of the
lip but flash of pride in the eye as the soldier
tells with how many he went in-hOw eX
pressive is that went in. Of truth it was
wading in deep waterS.-with how few be came
out | cannot try to swing the burden clear
from any heart by throwing into the scale upon
the other side the dead-weight of fifty-two
pieces of captured artillery, ten thousand stand
OF arms, and heaps Of dead enemies, Or by driving
upon it herd of seven thousand prisoners.
Nothing of all this can tighten that burden a
single ounce: but those three days work brought
Tennessee 10 'resurrection set the flag, that
tairest blossom in all this towery world, to
blooming in its native soil again.
That splendid march from the Federal line of
battle to the crest was made III one hour and
five minutes, but ii was grander march toward
the end Of carnage-a glorious campaign of sixty
five minutes toward the white borders of peace
1t made that fleeting November afternoon i'm
pcrishable. Let the struggle be known the
Battle of Mission Ridge and now that calmer
days have come, men make pilgrimage and women
smile again among the mountains of the Cumber-
land but they need no guide, Rust may have
eaten the guns: the graves of the heroes may
have subsidized like waves weary of their troub-
ling: the soldier and his leader may have lain
down together: but there, embossed upon the
globe Mission Ridge will stand its fitting mOnu-
ment forever.