Fighting sharp and hot, the Union lines reach the strong defences
of Peachtree Creek. Here Confederate Gilmer's engineering skill
has prepared ditch and fraise, abattis and chevaux-de-frise, with
yawning graves for the soon-forgotten brave.

McPherson, Schofield, Howard, Hooker, and Palmer are all in line,
deployed with strong reserves.

Anxious Sherman sends clouds of orderly officers and scouts, right
and left. Hood's defiant volleys die away. Will the rush come to-day?
No; the hours wear away. The night brings quiet along the lines.
Though a red harvest lies on the field, it is not the crowning
effort of the entire enemy. It is only a rattling day of uneasy,
hot-tempered fight.

But the awful morrow is to come. Sherman soon divines the difficulty
of fathoming the Texan's real designs. Hood is familiar with the
ground. Drawing back to the lines of Atlanta, Hood crouches for
a desperate spring. The ridges of the red clay hills, with little
valleys running to the Chattahoochee in the west, and Ocmulgee
in the east, cover his manoeuvres. Corn and cotton patches, with
thick forests between, lie along the extended front. A tangled
undergrowth masks the entire movements of the lurking enemy.

Tireless Sherman, expectant of some demoniac rush, learns that the
array before him is under Hood, Hardee, and the audacious cavalry
leader, Wheeler. Stewart's and Smith's Georgian levies are also in
line.

Every disposition is made by the wary antagonists. Sherman,