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THE
BEAUTIFUL COUNTESS;
Or,
A Horrible Mystery,
A Startling and Exciting Story
BY SHERIDAN LE FANUE.
CHAPTER IV.
I told you that I was charmed with her in
most particulars.
There were Borne that did not please me so
well.
She was about the middle height of women.
I shall begin by describing her. She was slen
der, and wonderfully graceful. Except that her
movements were languid t en/languid—indeed
there was nothing in her appearance that indi-
dicated an invalid. Her complexion was rich
and brilliant; her features were small and beau
tifully formed; her eyes large, dark and lustrous;
her hair was quite wonderful, I never saw hair
so magnificently thick and long when it was
down about her shoulders; I have oiten placed
my hands und § it, and laughed with wonder
at its weight. It was exquisitly fine and 6oft,
and in color a rich very dark brown, with some
thing of gold. I loved to let it down, tumbling
with its own weight, as, in her room, she lay
back in her chair talking in her sweet, low voice,
I used to fold and braid it, and spread it out
and play with it. Heavens! If I bad but known
all!
I said there were particulars which did not
please me. I have told you that her confidence
won me the first night I saw her; but I found
that she exercised with respect to herself, her
mother, her history, everything in fact connect
ed with her life, plans, and people, an ever
wakeful reserve. I dare say I was unreasonable,
perhaps 1 was wrong; I dare say I ought to have
respected the solemn injunction laid on my fa
ther by the stately lady in black velvet. But
curiosity is a restless and unscrupulous passion,
and no one girl can endure, with patience, that
her’s should be baffled by another. What harm
could it do anyone to tell me what I so ardently
desired to know ? Had she no trust in my good
sense or honor? Why would she not believe
me when I assured her, so solemnly, that I would
not divulge one syllable of what she told me to
any mortal breathing.
There was a coldness, it seemed to me, be
yond her years, in hei smiling, melancholy, per
sistent refusal to afford me the least ray of
light
I cannot say wa quarrelled on this point, for
she would not quarrel upon any. It was, of
course, very unfair of me to press her, very ill-
bred, but I really could not help it; and I might
just as well have let it alone.
What she did tell me amounted in my estima
tion to—nothing.
It was all summed up in three very vague dis
closures:
First—Her name was Carmilla.
Second.—Her family was very ancient and
noble.
Third,—Her home lay in the direction of the
West.
She would not tell me the name of her family,
nor their armorial bearings, nor the name of
the country they lived in.
You are not to suppose that I worried her in
cessantly on these subjects. 1 watched oppor
tunity, and rather insinuated than urged my
inquiries. Once or twice, indeed, I did attack
her more directly. But no matter what my tac
tics, utter failure was the inevitable result. Re
proaches and caresses were all lost npon her,
But I must add this, that her evasion was con
ducted with so pretty a melancholy and depre
cation, with so many, and even passionate de
clarations of her liking for me, and trust in my
honor, and with so many promises that I should
at last know all, that I could not find it in my
heart long to be offended with her.
She used to place her pretty arms about my
neck, draw me to her, and laying her cheek to
mine, murmer with her lips near my ear, 'Dear
est, your little heart is wounded; think me not
cruel because I obey the irresistible law of my
strength and weakness; if your dear heart is
wounded, my wild heart bleeds with yours. In
the rapture of my enormous humiliation I live
in your warm life, and you shall die—die, sweet
ly die—into mine. I cannot help it; as I draw
near to you, you, in your turn, will draw near
to others, and learn the rapture of that cruelty
which yet is love; so, for a while, seek to know
no more of me and mine, but trust me with all
your loving spirit. "
Aud when she had spoken such a rhapsody,
she would press me more closely in her tremb
ling embrace, and her lips in soft kisses gently
on my cheek.
Her agitation and her language were unin el
igible to me.
From these foolish embraces, which were
not of very frequent occurrence, I must allow,
I used to wish to extricate myself; but my en
ergies seemed to fail me. Her murmured words
sounded like a lullaby in my ear, and soothed
my resistance into a trance, from which I only
seemed to recover myself when she withdrew
her arms.
In these mysterious moods I did not like her.
I experienced a strange tumultuous excitement
that was pleasurable, ever and anon mingled
with a vague sense of fear and disgust. I had
no distinct thoughts about her while such scenes
lasted, but I was conscious of a love growing in
to adoration, and also of abhorrance. This I
know is paradox, but I can make no other at
tempt to explain the feeling.
I now write, after an interval of more than ten
years, with a trembling hand, with a confused
and horrible recollection of certain occurren
ces and situations, in the ordeal through which
I was unconciously passing; though with a vivid
and very sharp remembrance of the main cur
rent of my story. But, I suspect, in all lives
there are certain emotional scenes, those in
which our passions are most wildly and terribly
roused, that are of all others the most vaguely
and dimly remembered.
Sometimes after an hour of apathy, my strange
and beautiful eumpanion would take my hand
and hold it with a fond pressure, renewed again
and again; blushing softly, gazing in my face
with langnid and burning eyes, and breathing
so fast that her dress rose and fell with the tu
multuous respiration. It was like the ardour of
a lover; it embarressed me; it was hateful and
yet overpowering; and with gloating eyes she
drew me to her, and her hot lips travelled along
my cheek in kisses; and she would whisper, al
most in sobs, “You are mine, you shall be mine,
you and I are one forever.” Then she has thrown
herself back in her chair, with her small hands
over her eyes, leaving me trembling.
“Are we related,” 1 used to ask; “what can
you mean by all this ? I remind you perhaps
of some one whom you love; but you must not,
I hate it; I don’t know you—I don’t know my
self when you look so and talk so.”
She used to sigh at my vehemence, then turn
away and drop my hand.
Respecting these very extraordinary manifes
tations I strove in vain to form any satisfactory
theory—I could not refer them to affectation or
trick. It was unmistakably the momentary
breaking out of suppressed instinct and emo
tion. Was she, notwithstanding her mother's
volunteered denial, subject to brief visitations
of insanity; or was there here a disguise and a
romance ? I had read in old story books of
such things. What if a boyish lover had found
his way into the house, and sought to prosecute
his suit in masquerade, with the assistance of a
clever old adventuress. But there were many
things against this hypothesis, highly interest
ing as it was to my vanity.
I could boast of no little attentions, snch as
masculine gallantry delights to offer. Between
these passionate moments there were long in
tervals of commonplace, of gayety, of brooding
melancholy, during which, except I i detected
her eyes so full of melancholy fire, following
me, at times I might have been as nothing to
her. Except in these brief periods of mysteri
ous excitement, her ways were girlish; and there
was always a languonr about her, quite incom
patible with a masculine system, in a state of
health.
In some respects her habits were odd. Per
haps not so singular, in the opinion of a town
lady, like you, as they appear to us rustic peo
ple. She used to come down very late, gene
rally not till one o’clock, she would then take
a cup of chocolate, but eat nothing; we then
went out for a walk, which was a mere saun
ter, and she seemed, almost immediately, ex
hausted, and either returned to the schloss or
sat on one of the benches, that were placed
here and there among the trees. This was a
bodily languor, in which her mind did not
sympathize. She was always an animated
talker, and very intelligent.
She sometimes alluded for a moment to her
own home, or mentioned an adventure or a
situation, or an early recollection, which indi
cated a people of strange manners, and describ
ed customs of which we knew nothing. I gath
ered from these chance hints, that her native
country was much more remote than I had at
first fancied.
As we sat thus, one ofternoon under the treea,
a funeral passed us by. It was that of a pretty
young girl, whom I had often seen, the daugh
ter of one of the rangers of the forest. The
poor man was walking behind the ooffin of his
darling; she was his only child, and be looked
qu’te heartbroken. Feasants walking two-and
two came behind, they were singing a funeral
hymn.
I rose to mark my respect, as they passed,
and joined in the hymn, they were very sweet
ly singing.
My companion shook me a little roughly,
and I turned surprised.
She said, brusquely, “Don’t you perceive
how discordant that is?”
“I think it very sweet, on the contrary,” I
answered, vexed at the interruption and very
uncomfortable, lest the people who composed
the little procession, should observe and re
sent what was passing.
I resumed, therefore, instantly, and was again
interrupted. “You pierce my ears” said Car
milla, almost angrily, and stopping her ears
with her tiny fingers. ‘ Besides, how can you
tell that your religion and mine, are the same?
Your forms wound me and I hate funerals.
What a fuss ! Why you must die—every one
must die; and all are happier when they do.
Come home.”
“My father has gone on with tho clergyman
to the churchyard* I thought you knew she
was to be buried to-day ?”
•'She? I don’t trouble my head about peas
ants. 1 don’t know who she is,” answered Car
milla, with a flash from her fine eyes.
“She is the poor girl, who fancied she was a
ghost, a fortnight ago, and has been dying ever
since, till yesterday, she expired.”
“Tell me nothing about ghosts. I shan’t
sleep tonight, if you do.”
“I hope there is no plague or fever coming;
all this looks very much like it,” I continued.
' The swineheard's young wife died only a week
ago, and she thought that something seized her
by the throat, as she lay in her bed, and nearly
strangled her. Papa says, such horrible fancies
do accompany some forms of fever. She was
quite well the day before. She sank afterwards
and died before a week.
“Well, her funeral is over, I hope, and her
hymn sung; and our ears shan’t be tortured
with that discord and jargon. It has made me
nervous. Sit down here, beside me; sit close;
hold my hand; press it hard—hard—harder.”
We had moved a little back, and had come to
another seat.
She sat down. Her face underwent a change,
that alarmed, and even terrified me for a mo
ment. It darkened, and became horribly livid;
her teeth and hands were clenched, and she
frowned and compressed her lips, while she
stared down upon the ground at her feet, and
trembled all over with a continued shudder, as
irrepressible as an ague. All her energies seem
ed strained to suppress a tit, with which she
was then breathlessly tugging; and at length a
low, convulsive cry of suffering, broke from
her, and gradually the hysteria subsided.
“There! That comes of strangling people with
hymns!” she said, at last “Hold me, hold me
still. It is passing away.”
And so gradually it did; and perhaps to dis
sipate the sombre impression, which the specta
cle had left upon me, she became unusually an
imated and chatty; and so we got home.
This was the first time I had seen her exhibit
any definable symptoms of that delicacy of
health, which her mother had spoken of. It
was the first time, also, I had seen her exhibit
anything like temper.
Both passed away like a summer cloud; and
never but once afterwards, did I witness, on her
part, a momentary sign of anger. I will tell
you how it happened.
She and I were looking out of one of the long
drawing-room windows, when there entered
the court-yard, over the drawbridge, a figure of
a wanderer whom I knew very well. He used
to visit the schloss generally twice a year.
It was the figure of a hunchback, with the
sharp lean features that generally accompany
deformity. He wore a pointed black beard, and
he was smiling from ear to ear, showing his
white fangs. He was dressed in buff, black,
and scarlet, and crossed with more straps and
belts than I could count, from which hung all
manner of things. Behind, he carried a magic-
lantern, and two boxes, whioh I well knew, in
one of which was a salamander, and in the other
a mandrake. These monsters used to make my
father laugh. They were compounded of parts
of monkeys, parrots, squirrels, fish and hedge
hogs, dried and stiched together with great neat
ness and startling effect. He had a fiddle, a
box of conjuring appartures, a pair of foils and
masks attached to his belt, several other myste
rious cases dangling about him, and a black
staff with copper ferrules in his hand. His
companion was a rough spare dog, that follow
ed at his heels, but stopped short, suspiciously
at the drawbridge, and in a little while began to
howl dismally.
In the meantime, the mountebank, standing
in the midst of the courtyard, raised his gro-
tesqe hat, and made us a very ceremonious bow,
paying his compliments very volubly in execrable
French, and German not much better. Then,
disengaging his fiddle, be began to scrape a live
ly air, to which he sang with a merry discord,
duncing with ludicrous airs and activity, that
made me laugh, in spite of the dog’s howling.
Then he advanced to the window with many
smiles and salutations, and his hat in his left
hand, his fiddle under his left arui, and with a
fluency that never took breath, he gabbled a long
advertisement of all accomplishments, and the
resources of the various arts which he placed at
our service, and the curiosities and entertain
ments which it was in his power, at our bidding,
to display.
“Will your ladyship be pleased to buy an am
ulet against the onpire, which is going like the
wolf, I hear through these woods,” he said, drop
ping his hat on the pavement. “They are
dying of it right and left; here is a charm that
never fails; only piuned to the pillow, and you
may laugh in his face."
These churms consisted of oblong slips of vel
lum, with cabalistic ciphers and diagrams upon
them. •
Carmilla instantly purchased one, and so
did L
He was looking up, and we were smiling down
upon him, amused; at least, I can answer for
myself, His piercing black eye, as he looked
up in our faces, seemed to detect something
that fixed for a moment his curiosity.
In an instant he unrolled a leather case, full
of ail manner of odd little steel instruments.
“ See here, my lady,” he said, displaying it,
and addresssng me, “ I profess, among other
things less useful, the art of dentistry. Plague
take the dog! ” he interpolated. “ Silence,
beast! He howls so that your ladyships can
scarcely hear a word. Your noble friend, the
young lady at your right, has the sharpest tooth,
—long, thin, pointed, like an awl, like a needle;
ha, ha ! With my sharp and long sight, as I
look up, I have seen it distinctly; now if it hap
pens to hurt the young lady, and I think it must,
here am I, here are my file, my punch, my nip
pers; I will round and blunt, if her ladyship
pleases; no longer the tooth of a fish, but of a
beautful young lady as she is. Hey! Is the
young lady displeased? Have 1 been too bold?
Have I offended her ? ”
The young lady, indeed, looked very angry as
she drew back from the window.
“ How dares that mountebank insult us so ?
Where is your father ? I shall demand redress
from him. My father would have had the wretch
tied up to the pump, and flogged with a cart-
whip, and burnt to the bones with the castle
brand ! ”
She retired from the window a step or two,
and sat down, and had hardly lost sight of the
offender, when her wrath subsided as suddenly
as it had risen, and she gradually recovered her
usual tone, and seemed to forget the little
hunchback and his follies.
My father was out of spirits that evening. On
coming in he told us that there had been another
case very similar to the two fatal ones which had
lately occurred, The sister of a young peasant
on bis estate, only a mile away, was very ill,
bad been, as she described it attacked very near
ly in the same way, and was now slowly but
steadily sinking.
“All this,” said my father, “ is strictly refer
able to natural causes. These poor people infect
one another with their superstition and so re
peat in imagination the images of terror that
have infested the neighbors.”
“But that very circumstance frightens one
horribly,” said Carmilla.
“ How so ? ” enquired my father.
“ I am so afraid of fancying I see such things;
I think it would be as bad as reality.” . .
“ We are in God’s hands; nothing can happen
without his permission, and all will’ end well
for those who love him. He is our faithful Cre
ator. He has made us all, and will take care
of us.”
“Creator! Nature! ” said the young lady in
answer to my gentle father. “And this disease
that invades the country is natural. Nature.
All things proceed from nature—don’t they?
All things in the heaven, in the earth, and under
the earth, act and live as Nature ordains? I
think so.”
“The doctor said he would come here to
day,” said my father, after a silence. “ I want
to know what he thinks about it, and what he
thinks we had better do.”
"doctors never dffi me any good,” said
Carmilla.
“ Then you have been ill? ” I asked.
“More ill than ever you were,” she answered.
“Long ago?”
“Yes, a long time. I suffered from this very
illness; but I forget all but my pain and weak
ness, and they were not so bad as are suffered
in other diseases.”
“You were very young then?"
“I dare say; let us talk no more of it. You
would not wound a friend? She looked languidly
in my eyes, and passed her arms around my waist
lovingly, and led me out of the room. My father
was busy over some papers near the window.
“Why does your papa like to frighten us?"
said the pretty girl with a sigh and a little shud
der.
“lie doesn’t, dear Carmilla, it is the very fur
thest thing from his mind.”
“Areyou afraid, dearest?”
“I should be very much if I fancied there was
any real danger of my being attacked as those poor
people were.”
“Y'ou are afraid to die?”
“Yes, every one is.”
“But to die as lovers may—to die together, so
that they may live together. Girls are caterpil
lars while they live in the world,, to be finally
butterflies when the summer comfe; but in the
meantime there are grubs and harm, don’t you
see—each with their peculiar propensities, neces
sities, and structure. So says Monsieur Buffon,
in his big book, in the next room.”
Later iu the day the doctor came, and was clos
eted with papa for some time. He was a skillful
man of sixty and upwards, he wore powder, and
shaved his pale face as smooth as a pumpkin. He
and papa emerged from the room together, and I
heard papa laugh, and say as they came out:
“Well, I do wonder at a wise man like you.
What do you say to hippogriffs and dragons?”
The doctor was smiling, and made answer shak
ing his head—
“Nevertheless life and death are mysterious
states, and we know little of the resources of eith
er.”
And so they walked on, and I heard no more.
I did not then know what the doctor had been
breaching, but I think I guess it now.
One day my father brought an artist from the
city to renovate some old pictures that hung on
the long, well-lined gallery walls. Among them
was one that had been during all my reoolleotion,
turned to the wall. My father had an indistinct
recollection of their being some terrible story
connected with it. It seemed, however, a fine
picture—a portrait of a beautiful woman. When
the artist had worked upon it for some time, my
father called me to him. Pointing to the pic
ture he asked:
“Whom does it resemble?”
It was wonderfully like our guest
“Oh, father,” I cried, “it must have been
painted for Carmilla.”
He laughed.
“It was painted over a oentury ago,” he said.
When it was completely restored I brought
Carmilla to look at it. She was visibly discom
posed when her eyes fell upon it; and I thought
she turned pale. But she said quietly:
“Yes; it is like me. Suoh resemblances some
times occur.”
“ Will you let me hang this picture in my
room papa ?’’ I asked.
“Certainly, dear” said he, “I’m very glad you
think it so like. It must be prettier even than I
thought it, if it is.”
The young lady did not acknowledge this
pretty speech, did not seem to hear it. She
was leaning back in her seat, her fine eyes under
their long lashes gazing on me in contemplation
and she smiled iu a kind of rapture.
“ And now you can read quite plainly the
name that is written in gold. The name is Mir-
calla, Countess Karnstein, and this is a little
coronet over it, and underneath a.d. 1698. I am
decended from the Karsteius; that is mamma
was.”
“Ah ! said the lady, langui dly, “ so am I, I
think, a very long descent, very ancient. Are
there any Karnsteins living now?”
“ None who bear the same, I think. The
family were ruined, I believe, in some civil war*,
long ago, but the ruins of the castle are only about
three miles away. ”
“ How interesting! ” she said, languidly, “ But
see what beautiful moonlight! ” She glanced
through the hall-door, which stood a little open.
“ Suppose you take a little ramble round to look
down at the road and river. ”
“ It is so like the night you came to us, ” I
said.
She sighed, smiling.
She rose, and each with her arm about the oth
er's waist, we walked out upon the pave
ment.
In silence, slowly we walked down to tne draw
bridge, where the beautiful landscape opened be
fore us.
“And so you were thinking of the night I came
here?” she almost whispered. “Are you glad I
came?”
“Delighted, dear Carmilla,” I answered.
“And you ask for the picture you think like
me, to hang in your room,” she murmured with
a sigh, as she drew her arm closer about my waist,
and let her pretty head sink upon my shoulder.
“How romantic you are, Carmilla,” 1 said.
“Whenever you tell me your story, it will be made
up chiefly of some great romance.”
She kissed me silently.
“I am sure, Carmilla, you have been in love;
that there is, at this moment, an affair of the heart
going on.”
“I have been in love with no one, and never
shall,” she whispered, “unless it should be with
you.”
How beautiful she looked in the moonlight.
Shy and strange was the look with which she
quickly hid her face in my neck and hair, with
tumultuous sighs, that seemed almost to sob, and
pressed in mine a hand that trembled.
Her soft cheek was glowing against mine. “Dar
ling, darling,’ she murmured, “1 live in you;
and you would die for me, I love you so.”
I started from her.
She was gazing on me with eyes from which all
fire, all meaning had flown, and a face colorless
and apathe‘ic.
“Is there a chill in the air, dear?" she said
drowsily. “I almost shiver; have I been dream,
ing? Let us come in. Come, come; come in.”
“Y'ou look itl, Carmilla; a little faint. Y’ou
must take some wine,” I said.
“Yes, I will. I’m better now. I shall be quite
well in a few minutes. Yes, do give me a little
wine,” answered Carmilla, as we approached the
door. “Let us look again for a minute ; it is the
last time, perhaps, I shall see the moonlight with
you.”
“How do you feel now, dear Carmilla ? Are
you really better?” I asked.
I was beginning to take alarm, lest she should
have been stricken with the strange epidemic that
they said had invaded the country about us.
“Papa would be grieved beyond measure,” I
added, “if he thought you were ever so little ill,
without letting us know. We have a very skill
ful doctor near us, the physician who was with
papa to-day.”
“I’m sure he is. I know how kind you all are;
but, dear child, I am quite well again. There is
nothing ever wrong with me, but a little weak
ness. People say I am languid ; I am incapable
of exertion ; I can scarcely walk as far as a child
of three years old ; and every now and then the
little strength I have falters, and 1 become as you
have just seen me. But after all, 1 am very easily
set up again; in a moment I am perfectly myself
See how I have recovered.”
So, indeed, she had; and she and I talked a
great deal, and very animated she was ; and the
remainder of that evening passed without any re
currence of what I called her infatuations. I
mean her crazy talk and looks, which embarrassed,
and even frightened me.
But there occurred that night an event which
gave my thoughts quite a new turn, and seemed
to startle even Carmilla’s languid nature into mo
mentary energy.
Battles Around Atlanta
FOURTH PAPER.
The Bloody Battle of Atlanta.
BY SIDNEY HERBERT.
In noting the operations of the 20th of J uly,
in the previous article, I overlooked the follow
ing “special telegram” to the Southern press:
“Gen. Wheeler has successfully engaged a large
force of the enemy during the greater part of
the day. This evening he charged their infant
ry most gallantly, driving their line back toward
Decatur.”
Mr. F. G. de Fontaine, the great war corres
pondent, writing from “Behind- the Chattahoo
chee,” says: “While the fight.... was in
progress on the left, YVheeler’s cavalry success
fully held the enemy’s infantry in check on our
right With small brigades he contested the
ground with two corps—Dodge's and Logan’s—
and after twelve or fourteen hour’s hard fighting
has prevented them from obtaing any advantage.
Cannonading has been constant along the lines
all day. The enemy ate evidently endeavoring
to maneuvere Hood out of Atlanta.”
Resuming his narrative, Gen. Wheeler writes:
“At daylight on the 21st another warm attack
was made by the Federals, and a hill secured,
to the right of the front, which was being de
fended by our dismounted cavalry. From this
point a battery of long range guns opened a se
vere fire npon our works, a single volley having
the remarkable effect of killing seventeen men
of one company. Other batteries, however,
opened fire without any very serious effect.
“At about 10 o’clock a oharge was made upon
the thin cavalry line, and upon the right of Gen.
Cleburne’s front. The extreme right was driven
from the works, but the stubborn fighting and
good position of the centre and left, enabled
them to hold on, and the oblique position of the
attacking lines left their right some distance in
Cleburne’s front.”
Major General G. W. Smith, commanding the
Georgia Militia, at 10 55 a. m., wrote to Gen.
Wheeler as fol lo ws: ‘ -A battery of artillery from
Gen. Hollengust's reserve hasjustcomeup, and
is being placed in position. Immediately on
receipt of your request for re-inforcements I
sent a staff officer to you with request that you
would send me one of your staff to conduct
them. The troops are ready and waiting. Say
300 men.” Later still, Aid-de-Camp Jno. G.
Smith sent him this order: “The General Com
manding directs me to say that he wishes you
to hold the gap between Gens’ Cleburne and Man
ny.” And at 2 30 p. m., he wrote: “The Gen
eral Commanding directs me to say that he will
to-night fill the vacancy between Gens’ Cleburne
and Manny with infantry; also to request that
you come to his qnsrters as soon as you can leave
your line this evening.”
“Findings portion of the lines still maintain
ing their position,” continues Gen. YVheeler,
“our defeated, dismounted cavalry rallied at the
foot of the ridge, and lead by their officers,
charged the victorious foe and retook their lines
after a sharp fight, which at one point was a
hand to hand combat directly in the ditches
and upon the parapet. That night we moved
south, turned at Hall’s mill, and placed the^cav
alry and Gen. Hardee’s corps on the left flank
of Gen. Sherman’s army.
“At daylight, on the 221, Gen. Hardee, Gen.
Wm. Henry T. YValker, and myself, got a citizen
to describe the topographical features ol the
country. He first said there were no obstructions
between ns and Sherman’s position, but a close
cross-examination developed an admission on
his part of a mill-pond, a mile long, and, in
some places, ten feet deep. How well I remem
ber Gen. Walker’s exclamation, and his several
times turning to me and saying, *«. mill-pond
ten feet deep and a mile long-no obstruction;
this fellow says it is no obstruction.’ And it was
during that same morning, while endeavoring
to penetrate the thick growth at the swampy head
of this very mill-pond, that General YValker, the
Chevalier Bayard, the knightly son of Georgia,
fell at the head of his division.”
General Wheeler addressed the following re
quest to Lieut. Gen. Hardee, before the battle
commenced: “Several more of my scouts have
come in, all corroborating the report I sent you
this morning, that Gen. Garrard had moved
towards Covington with his division. Shall I
pursue and break up Garrard, or shall I detach
a force to follow him ?” To this Gen. Hardee
replied : “I cannot spare you or any force to
pursue Garrard, now. We must attack as we
arranged, with all our force. I think our at
tack will bring Garrard back. You had best re
port the facts to Gen. Hood.”
On the 23d, however, Gen. Mackall sent the
following instructions to Gen. YVheeler in regard
to this matter : “Gen. Hood wishes you to take
what you think a sufficient force and pursue
the raiding party you report as moving on the
Covington road. You must leave a small force to
observe Gen. Hardee’s right, and if necessary,
recall the brigade you were ordered to send to
YVheeler, “was arranged with the corps of Gen.
Hardee on on the left, and the cavalry extending
to the right nearly to Decatur, aud during the
struggle advancing to and through the town,
capturing the garrison and a considerable
wagon train, and a depot ol stores, together
with a battery of four guns. The troops imme
diately opposed to the cavalry retreated in a
southwesterly direction, the cavalry pursuing
them about two miles, when General Hardee,
finding himself too hotly pursued, sent three
staff officers, in succession, with directions to
close in and concentrate everything to his sup
port. The battle continued very warm until
dark, yet the entire Confederate line held at
night the advanced works captured by them in
the morning.
“The success of the Southern troops, howev
er, was only partial. Though they attacked the
left flank, it was unfortunate for them that Gen.
McPherson had very prudently protected him
self against just such an emergency by building
strong works running back for a long distance
perpendicular with his main line, and the apex
of the angle thus created (built in the form of a
strong redoubt with an armament of Napoleon
guns) was the first part struck by our infantry.
The redoubt and breastworks and armament
were all captured, but at a most fearful loss,
and just beyond them we were met by a large
force who were moving up to relieve the troops
in the works.
“During the night the captured property was
removed to Atlanta, and for severhl days after
very heavy firing was kept up from the close
contending lines. Gen. Garrard, of the Fed
eral army, with a large force of cavalry had
moved towards Covington early on the 22d, and
after the battle of that day he was pursued by
our cavalry, by whom he was compelled to re
turn to the protection of his main army.’’
BETTERS FROM DISTINGUISHED GENERADS.
Gen. Johnston having turned over the com
mand of the Confederate army to Gen. Hood on
the 18th of July, his “Narrative” does not fur
nish any account of the bloody battle of Atlanta,
which occurred on the 22d. In a recent letter
to me, however, this distinguished and able
officer writes as follows in regard to my previous
article on this battle, and the death of Gen.
McPherson : “Not being connected with the
stirring events alluded to, I have no knowl
edge of them. Therefore, in order to qualify
myself to make some reply to your question, I
have been looking for printed accounts of the
circumstances of Gen. McPherson’s death. The
m ost detailed, and I suppose most authentic, is
Gen. Sherman’s—with which yours substantially
agrees.”
In reply to a request for information in re
gard to this battle, Gen. J. B. Hood, under date
of New Orleans, Dec. 9th, 1877, writes: “I have
your * • » request to furnish you informa
tion in regard to the operations of our army
around Atlanta. This I cannot well do. Since
the appearance of Johnston’s ‘ Narrative ’ and
Sherman's ‘Memoirs,’ I have been engaged
during the summer months in writing an ac
count of the Seige of Atlanta, the Campaign to
the Alabama line, and thereafter into Tennes
see. The subject upon which you are writing
is embraced in my own work.”
The account given by Gen. Sherman, and
upon which I based my previous article in re
gard to the death of McPherson, seems to be
generally accepted as reliable. Gen. John M.
Schofield, writing me from the YVest Point Mili
tary Academy, says: “So far as my memory
serves me your article is correct in all essential
details, and it is a very graphic account of the
memorable events connected with the death of
McPherson.” Gen. O. M. Poe, Engineer Corps,
of Gen. Sherman’s staff, gives me in his letter
the following important facts: “ I see bat little
to change in the article prepared by you. There
is one thing, however, which ought to be un
derstood, especially at Atlanta, namely—that
the “ Howard ” House referred to, was really the
“ Hurt House." [The residence of CoL Augus
tus Hurt] This fact was not known to me
until two years ago, and as it is often referred
to in official reports, correction should become
generally Known. I presume the error arose
from the similarity of sound between Howard
and Hurt. The house was a two-story (perhaps
it had an additional half-story) which stood
about a half a mile north oi the railroad from
Atlanta to Decatur, and about the same distance
east of the site of a saw mill, or distillery. Now,
a one-story building stands on the old foundation,
and as I understand it, the house belongs to
Mr. Hurt. This identification may be of im
portance hereafter.”
from gen. sherman’s memoirs.
After closing his account of the engagement
at Peachtree Creek on the 20th, and advance
ment of his lines close to the “ finished en
trenchments ” of the Confederates, Gen. Sher
man proceeds to give a graphic account of the
operations of the 21st and 22d, in the following
language:
“ From various parts of our lines the houses
inside of Atlanta were plainly visible, though
between us were the strong parapets, with ditch,
fraise, chevaux-defrise, and abatis, prepared long
in advance by Col. Jeremy F. Gilmer, formerly
of the United States Engineers. McPherson
had the Fifteenth Corps astride the Augusta
Railroad, and the Seventeenth deployed on its
left. Schofield was next on his right, then came
Howard’s, Hooker’s, and Palmer’s corps, on the
extreme right. Each corps was deployed with
strong reserves, and their trains were parked to
their rear. McPherson’s trains were in Decatur,
guarded by a brigade commanded by Col.
Sprague of the Sixty-third Ohio. The Sixteenth
Corps (Dodge’s) was crowded out of position on
the right ot McPherson's line, by the contrac-