covering Atlanta, to J.B. Hood. He is the Texan lion. Grizzled
Sherman laughs on the 18th of July, when his spies tell him Johnston
is relieved. "Replenish every caisson from the reserve parks;
distribute campaign ammunition," he says, briefly. "Hood would
assault me with a corporal's guard. He will fight by day or night.
I know him," Uncle Billy says.

The great Tecumseh feels a twinge as he whips out this verdict.
Hood's tactics are fearful. There are thousands of mute witnesses of
his own fatal rashness lying at Kenesaw, whose tongues are sealed
in death. On that sad clay, Sherman out-Hooded Hood. But the
blunt son of Ohio is right. He is a demi-god in intellect, and yet
he has the intuition of femininity. He has caught Hood's fighting
character at a glance.

There's no time to chaffer over the situation. McPherson, the pride
of the army, Thomas, the Rock of Chickamauga, and wary Schofield,
draw in the great Union forces. Gallant Howard is in this knightly
circle. "Black Jack" Logan, the "Harry Monmouth" of this coming
field, connects on the 19th. There has been hot work to-day. Firing
in Thomas's front tells the great strategist that Hood has tasted
blood. Enough!

Sherman knows how that mad Texan will throw his desperate men to
the front, in the snapping, ringing zone of fire and flame. Hooker
receives the shock of the onset, reinforced by heavy batteries, whose
blazing guns tear lightning-rent lanes through the Confederates.
Not a second to lose. The gray swarms are pouring on like mountain
wolves.