CHAPTER LI.

Solicitude as to the fate of Atlanta and Sherman’s army—­paucity of news —­how we heard that Atlanta had fallen—­announcement of A general exchange—­we leave Andersonville.

We again began to be exceedingly solicitous over the fate of Atlanta and Sherman’s Army:  we had heard but little directly from that front for several weeks.  Few prisoners had come in since those captured in the bloody engagements of the 20th, 22d, and 28th of July.  In spite of their confident tones, and our own sanguine hopes, the outlook admitted of very grave doubts.  The battles of the last week of July had been looked at it in the best light possible—­indecisive.  Our men had held their own, it is true, but an invading army can not afford to simply hold its own.  Anything short of an absolute success is to it disguised defeat.  Then we knew that the cavalry column sent out under Stoneman had been so badly handled by that inefficient commander that it had failed ridiculously in its object, being beaten in detail, and suffering the loss of its commander and a considerable portion of its numbers.  This had been followed by a defeat of our infantry at Etowah Creek, and then came a long interval in which we received no news save what the Rebel papers contained, and they pretended no doubt that Sherman’s failure was already demonstrated.  Next came well-authenticated news that Sherman had raised the siege and fallen back to the Chattahoochee, and we felt something of the bitterness of despair.  For days thereafter we heard nothing, though the hot, close Summer air seemed surcharged with the premonitions of a war storm about to burst, even as nature heralds in the same way a concentration of the mighty force of the elements for the grand crash of the thunderstorm.  We waited in tense expectancy for the decision of the fates whether final victory or defeat should end the long and arduous campaign.

At night the guards in the perches around the Stockade called out every half hour, so as to show the officers that they were awake and attending to their duty.  The formula for this ran thus: 

“Post numbah 1; half-past eight o’clock, and a-l-l ’s w-e-l-l!”

Post No. 2 repeated this cry, and so it went around.

One evening when our anxiety as to Atlanta was wrought to the highest pitch, one of the guards sang out: 

“Post numbah foah—­half past eight o’clock—­and Atlanta’s—­gone—­t-o —­hell”

The heart of every man within hearing leaped to his mouth.  We looked toward each other, almost speechless with glad surprise, and then gasped out: 

“Did ’you hear that?”

The next instant such a ringing cheer burst out as wells spontaneously from the throats and hearts of men, in the first ecstatic moments of victory—­a cheer to which our saddened hearts and enfeebled lungs had long been strangers.  It was the genuine, honest, manly Northern cheer, as different from the shrill Rebel yell as the honest mastiff’s deep-voiced welcome is from the howl of the prowling wolf.