One seeks to penetrate the mind of a commanding general at
such a time, and see what his feelings were. Again the battle had been
joined, and was at its height, and he away!
Those trained ears told him also that the rolling thunder of the cannon
was steadily moving toward them. It could mean only that the Northern
army had been driven from its camp and that the Southern army was
pushing its victory to the utmost. In those moments his agony must have
been intense. His great army not only attacked, but beaten, and he not
there! He and his staff urged their horses forward, seeking to gain
from them new ounces of speed, but the country was difficult. The hills
were rough and there were swamps and mire. And, as they listened,
the roar of battle steadily came nearer and nearer. There was no break
in the Northern retreat. The sweat, not of heat but of mental agony,
stood upon their faces. Grant was not the only one who suffered.
Now they met some of those stragglers who flee from every battlefield,
no matter what the nation. Their faces were white with fear and they
cried out that the Northern army was destroyed. Officers cursed them
and struck at them with the flats of their swords, but they dodged the
blows and escaped into the bushes. There was no time to pursue them.
Grant and his staff never ceased to ride toward the storm of battle
which raged far and wide around the little church of Shiloh.
The stream of fugitives increased, and now they saw swarms of men who
stood here and there, not running, but huddled and irresolute.
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