it were, at the unexpected discharge
of the gun. And other such scenes, I reckon, were being enacted
elsewhere, but at last a detail was sent around to arrest all stragglers,
and we were soon rolling back to Atlanta.

"BELLUM LETHALE"

Well, after "jugging" Stoneman, we go back to Atlanta and occupy our same
old place near the concrete house. We found everything exactly as we had
left it, with the exception of the increased number of graybacks, which
seemed to have propagated a thousand-fold since we left, and they were
crawling about like ants, making little paths and tracks in the dirt
as they wiggled and waddled about, hunting for ye old Rebel soldier.
Sherman's two thirty-pound parrot guns were in the same position, and
every now and then a lazy-looking shell would pass over, speeding its way
on to Atlanta.

The old citizens had dug little cellars, which the soldiers called
"gopher holes," and the women and children were crowded together in these
cellars, while Sherman was trying to burn the city over their heads.
But, as I am not writing history, I refer you to any history of the war
for Sherman's war record in and around Atlanta.

As John and I started to go back, we thought we would visit the hospital.
Great God! I get sick today when I think of the agony, and suffering,
and sickening stench and odor of dead and dying; of wounds and sloughing
sores, caused by the deadly gangrene; of the groaning and wailing.
I cannot describe it. I remember, I went in the rear of the building,
and there I saw a pile of arms and legs, rotting and decomposing; and,
although I saw thousands of horrifying scenes during the war, yet today
I have no recollection in my whole life, of ever seeing anything that I
remember with more horror than that pile of legs and arms that had been
cut off our soldiers. As John and I went through the hospital, and were
looking at the poor suffering fellows, I heard a weak voice calling, "Sam,
O, Sam." I went to the poor fellow, but did not recognize him at first,
but soon found out that it was James Galbreath, the poor fellow who had
been shot nearly in two on the 22nd of July. I tried to be cheerful,
and said, "Hello, Galbreath, old fellow, I thought you were in heaven
long before this." He laughed a sort of dry, cracking laugh, and asked
me to hand him a drink of water. I handed it to him. He then began to
mumble and tell me something in a rambling and incoherent way, but all
I could