That was what caused the change of commanders in Georgia, and the desperate invasion that blew to pieces at Nashville; and it introduces a little scouting incident upon which the event of that campaign may have partially turned.  General Hood was in camp at Jonesborough:  Forrest and Wheeler were detached to destroy Sherman’s single thread of supplies.  Prisoners pretended to have been on half rations, and the sanguine opinion at head-quarters was that Sherman was on the grand retreat.  That able strategist had disappeared, enveloping himself in impenetrable vidette swarms of cavalry.  He had pocketed one hundred thousand men in the Georgia hills, and no one could find them; at least, General Hood could not.

But others were not sanguine about Sherman’s falling back.  General Jackson selected a major, a trusted scout, with twenty-five men, with instructions to find Sherman.  Again and again the scout and his little band tried to pierce that impenetrable cloud, and could not.  Then he tried another plan.  He snapped up a Federal squad, clothed a select part of his little band in their uniform, and sent the others back with the prisoners.  Then he plunged boldly into the cloud, a squad of Federals, bummers, pioneers.  Does the reader reflect upon the fine fibre of the material requisite for such an exploit?  It is not strength, courage or tactical cunning that is most wanted, but that most difficult art, to be able to put off your own nature and put on another’s—­to play a part, not as the actor, who struts his hour in tinsel and mouths his speeches as no mortal man ever walked or talked in real life, but as one who stakes his life upon a word, an accent; requiring subtlety of analytic sense and quickness of thought.  Polyglot as was the speech of the Federal forces, suspicion, started by that test, would run rapidly to results.  Then there was the danger of collision with the regiment whose uniform they had assumed.  Swift, constant motion was required.  They swept to the head of the column, and, to be brief, the first Federal pontoon thrown across the Chattahoochee was laid with the assistance of these spies.  The leader threw himself on the bank and counted the regiments by their insignia as they passed, until he saw the linen duster and the glittering staff of the great commander himself as they clattered over the bridge.  Then to Campbellton, hard by, where their horses were rendezvoused, and whip and spur to Jonesborough.

A council of war was sitting when the scout arrived.  He was hurried into its presence, and told his story with laconic, military precision.  Sherman’s whole force was across the Chattahoochee and marching on Jonesborough, twenty miles away.

“I have sure information to the contrary,” said the commanding general, singularly deceived by a strong conviction, enforced by scouts who depended on rumor for authority.  “It is some feint to cover the general movement.”

“I counted the flags, guidons, regimental insignia—­such force of cavalry, artillery, infantry,” giving the numbers.  “I saw and recognized General Sherman,” said the scout briefly.