army lay within a half mile of our road,
while we all sneaked by, infantry, artillery, and trains. The enemy's
camp-fires shone redly--miles of them--seemingly only a stone's throw from
our hurrying column. His men were plainly visible about them, cooking
their suppers--a sight so incredible that many of our own, thinking them
friends, strayed over to them and did not return. At intervals of a few
hundred yards we passed dim figures on horseback by the roadside,
enjoining silence. Needless precaution; we could not have spoken if we had
tried, for our hearts were in our throats. But fools are God's peculiar
care, arid one of his protective methods is the stupidity of other fools.
By daybreak our last man and last wagon had passed the fateful spot
unchallenged, and our first were entering Franklin, ten miles away.
Despite spirited cavalry attacks on trains and rear-guard, all were in
Franklin by noon and such of the men as could be kept awake were throwing
up a slight line of defense, inclosing the town.

Franklin lies--or at that time did lie; I know not what exploration might
now disclose--on the south bank of a small river, the Harpeth by name. For
two miles southward was a nearly flat, open plain, extending to a range of
low hills through which passed the turnpike by which we had come. From
some bluffs on the precipitous north bank of the river was a commanding
overlook of all this open ground, which, although more than a mile away,
seemed almost at one's feet. On this elevated ground the wagon-train had
been parked and General Schofield had stationed himself--the former for
security, the latter for outlook. Both were guarded by General Wood's
infantry division, of which my brigade was a part. "We are in beautiful
luck," said a member of the division staff. With some prevision of what
was to come and a lively recollection of the nervous strain of helpless
observation, I did not think it luck. In the activity of battle one does
not feel one's hair going gray with vicissitudes of emotion.

For some reason to the writer unknown General Schofield had brought along
with him General D.S. Stanley, who commanded two of his divisions--ours
and another, which was not "in luck." In the ensuing battle, when this
excellent officer could stand the strain no longer, he bolted across the
bridge like a shot and found relief in the hell below, where he was
promptly tumbled out of the saddle by a bullet.

Our line, with its reserve bri