A Yankee book on the War.
A runner of the blockade has brought through the lines a very interesting Yankee production, having the lengthy title: "Thirteen Months in the
Rebel Army — a narrative of personal adventures in the infantry, cavalry, ordnance, courier, and hospital service, with an exhibition of the power, purposes, military despotism, and demurral nation of the
South.
By an Impressed New Yorker."
The book contains a very succinct and entertaining account of the
Western campaign, ending at
Shiloh, and is ably written, with but very little of that vituperation and invective that characterize the books of
Brownlow and other traitors who now dance to the despotic tune of
Lincoln's late.--The author's adventures were varied, comprising an active part in the battles of
Belmont and
Shiloh, and an interesting career in cur hospitals; and the book is scarce less noteworthy for its good temper than its fund of incident and anecdote. --During his animations career in the
South he sterns to have had perception enough to see that bitter words avail as nought used against the revolution, and he very wisely admits that it is now a struggle to be decided by straight skill and endurance.
His greatest efforts are to impress Northern minds with the conviction that they are unequal for the struggle, and will continue to be, until they wake up to the great fact that the
South is terribly in earnest Statements are made in regard to our numbers, how our armies are equipped, where the implements of war are manufactured and shipped to, of the earnestness of the people, their determination never to be conquered, their conviction of ultimate success, displaying unusual knowledge of all these things, and there forced acceptance even by a blazed mind.
The following is a graphic sketch of a council of war, held the evening before the
battle of Shiloh, and worthy of republication:
At about 8 o'clock P. M. a council of war was hold among the principal
Generals, and the plan of battic arranged.
In an open space, with a dim fire in the midst, and a drum on which to write, you could see grouped around their little
Napoleon — as
Beauregard was sometimes fondly called--ten or twelve
Generals, the flickering light playing over their eager faces while they listened to his plans, and made suggestions as to the conduct of the fight.
He soon warmed with the subject, and, throwing off his cloak to give full play to his arms, he walked about in the group, gesticulating rapidly and jerking out his sentences with a French accent.
All listened attentively, and the dim light, just revealing their countenances, showed their different emotions of confidence or district in his plans.--
Gen Sidney Johnston stood apart from the rest, with his tail, straight form standing out like a specie against the dim sky, and the illusion was sustains by the light gray military cloak which he folded around him. His face was pale, but were a determined expression, and at times be drew nearer the centre of the ring and said a few words, which were listened to with great attention.
It may be he had some foreboding of the fate he was to meet on the morrow, for he did not seem to take much part in the discussion.
General Brenkinridge lay stretched out on a blanket near the fire, and occasionally say upright and added a few words of counsel.
General Bragg spoke frequently and with earnestness.
General Polk sat on a camp stool at the outside of the circle and held his head between his hands, seeming buried in thought, others reclined or sat in various positions.
What a grave study for Rembrandt was this, to see these men, who held the lives of many thousands in their power, planning how best to invoke the angel
Israel to hurt his darts with the break of evening light.
I heard
General Breckinridge say, raising his head and pointing in the direction of the
Federal camps, whose drums we could plainly hear, "Gentlemen, we sleep in the enemy's camps to morrow night."
