When the bodies arrived, it was a city of tears. Flags floated at half-mast; women walked the streets wringing their hands and weeping bitter tears. Their idols lay dead. Poor Nashville! She was to drink still deeper of the bitter cup of war.
CHAPTER XV. A FIGHT WITH GUERRILLAS.
Back over the ten miles that they had marched through the darkness and rain, the Confederate army fled in the wildest confusion. Swift in pursuit came the victorious army of Thomas. Before night his cannon were shelling the entrenchments at Beech Grove. There was no rest for the hungry, weary, despondent Confederates. In the darkness of the night they stole across the river, and then fled, a demoralized mob, leaving everything but themselves in the hands of the victors.
The next morning an officer came to Fred and said one of the prisoners would like to see him.
"One of the prisoners would like to see me," asked Fred, in surprise. "What for?"
"I don't know," answered the officer. "But he is a plucky chap; it's the young lieutenant who headed the last rally of the Rebs. He fought until he was entirely deserted by his men and surrounded by us; he then tried to cut his way out, but his horse was shot and he captured."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Fred. "It must be Calhoun," and he rushed to where the prisoners were confined.