"You'll have to get the Captain's permission before you can see your
cousin."
It was early in April, 1862. The troops under the command of General O. M.
Mitchel were encamped between Shelbyville and Murfreesboro, Tennessee,
after a march from Nashville through a steady drizzle of rain. It had been
a dreary, tedious march, made worse by long detours to avoid burnt bridges,
detours over roads where the heavy wagons of the army sank hub-deep in the
glue-like mud. It had been a fight against the rain and mud every inch of
the way. And now, except for the details of bridge repairing, the troops
were resting, drying their water-soaked knapsacks, and gathering strength
for the march southward. Rumors of Chattanooga were in the air, and the
camp was buzzing with talk of "Mitchel's plan of campaign." Groups of
soldiers stood about exchanging views on what would happen next,
speculating upon the points where they would come into contact with the
rebs: others were playing games, or lying upon blankets spread before their
tents, sleeping, reading and writing letters. The rows of tents gave a
suggestion of military orderliness to the scene, but it was a suggestion
only, for the tents and their guy ropes were strung with blankets and
clothing put out to dry.
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