The two lines of siege and battle stretched in wide semicircle for miles over the ragged wood tangled hills about the little Gate City of the South.
Sherman had fought his way from Chattanooga one hundred and fifty miles since May with consummate skill. His march had been practically a continuous series of battles, and yet his losses had been small compared to General Grant's. In killed, wounded and prisoners he had only lost thirty-two thousand men in four months. The Confederate losses had been greater—at least thirty-five thousand.
Hood, the new Southern Commander, had given him battle a month before and suffered an overwhelming defeat, losing eight thousand men, Sherman but thirty-seven hundred. The Confederate forces had retired behind the impregnable fortifications of Atlanta and Sherman lay behind his trenches watching in grim silence.
The pickets at many places were so close together they could talk. John Vaughan attempted to slip through at night while they were chaffing one another.
He lay for an hour in the woods near the Southern picket line watching his chance. The men were talking continuously.
"Why the devil don't you all fight?" a grey man called.
"Uncle Billy says it's cheaper to flank you and make you Johnnies run to catch up with us."
"Yes—damn you, and we've got ye now where ye can't do no more flankin'. Ye got ter fight!"
"Trust Uncle Billy for that when the time comes——"
"Yes, and we've got Billy Sherman whar we want him now. We're goin' to blow up every bridge behind ye and ye'll never see home no more——"