But the first speaker remained a pessimist. “What we give our blood to is the earth and the sea. We don’t give no blood to the Confederacy. The Confederacy ain’t gaining blood; she’s losing blood—drop by drop out of every vein. She lost a deal at Chickamauga and she’s going to lose a deal—”
“The black is three quarters over. God! ain’t it eerie?”
“The man that says the Confederacy is going to end is a damned coward and traitor! That thing up there ain’t nothing but a passing shadow—”
Cleburne came by. “Too dark to dig, boys? Never mind! There’ll be light enough by and by.”
The black veil drew across, then slowly passed. Cold and bright the moon looked down. Cleburne’s men built their breastwork, then, straightening themselves, wiped with the back of their hands the sweat from their brows. Their work had made them warm, but now was felt the mortal chill of the hour before dawn. The woods began to sigh. They made a mysterious, trembling sound beneath the concave of the sky. The sky paled; on the east above the leafless trees came a wash of purple, desolate and withdrawn. The November day broke slowly. There was a mist. It rose from the streams, it hung upon bush and tree, it hid enemy from enemy, it almost hid friend from friend.
With the light came skirmishing, and at sunrise the batteries opened from the ridge the blue had seized. At ten o’clock there arrived the Federal advance upon this front. It came through the light mist, in two long lines of battle. Its bands were playing. Davis’s division, three divisions of Sherman’s, Eleventh Corps of the Army of the Potomac, Sherman commanding all. There was a hill near the tunnel, and Cleburne held this and the woodland rolling from the right. He had guns in position above the tunnel gaping like a black mouth in the hillside, gaping at the hurrahing rush of Sherman’s men.
All day on this right the conflict howled. Hardee and Hardee’s corps were cool and stanch; Cleburne was a trusted man, hilt and blade. Sherman launched his thunderbolts, blue charge after blue charge; “General Pat” flung them back. The sky was dark with the leaden rain; the November woods rang; Tunnel Hill, Swett’s and Key’s batteries, flamed through the murk; Texas and Arkansas, Georgia and Tennessee, grappled with Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Ohio. All day, to and fro, in the leafless woods, under the chill sky, over a rugged ground, they swung and swayed. Now the blue seemed uppermost, and now the grey, but at last the grey charged with bayonets. After this the blue rested, a sullen sea, held back by Tunnel Hill and all the grey-hued slopes around. The afternoon was well advanced, the smoke-draped woods dim enough. Cleburne’s men smiled, nodding their heads. “That old eclipse wa’n’t nothing! This Confederacy’s immortal—Yes, she is! She’s got a wreath of immortelles.—I’m going to ask General Pat if she hasn’t! You artillerymen did first-rate, and we infantry did first-rate, and if the cavalry hadn’t been sent away I reckon they’d have done as well as it lies in cavalry to do.—Now, if the centre and the left—”
A courier came over stock and stone, pushing a foam-flecked horse—“General Cleburne!—Order from General Hardee—”
Cleburne read: “General: Send at once all possible troops to support centre. It’s much in danger.”
Cleburne took Cummings and Maney and with them set face to Missionary Ridge. A little way through the darkening wood and a gasping aide met him—“From General Hardee, sir! They’ve pierced our centre. They’re on the Ridge—they’ve overflowed Missionary Ridge. We’re all cut to pieces there—demoralized.—General Hardee says, form a line so as to meet attack. Do the best you can for the safety of the right wing—”