the assault, are not crestfallen, for they achieved all that brave men might. Our lines envelop them more closely than ever before; are better poised for a general assault, if one should be ordered; and, finally, the spirit of the men is unbroken. They are resolute, earnest, heroic, self-sacrificing, and firmly convinced that their mission, sooner or later, is victory complete and overwhelming.
in the field, seven miles South-East of Big Shanty, Ga., June 28, 1864.After an adventurous and costly experience by rail, in which some scoundrelly, petty thief robbed me of everything valuable, I arrived at Big Shanty and made inquiry for General Logan's headquarters. About one and a half miles out on the wagon road leading toward Kenesaw Mountain, a little to the left, in an open field, and in full view of the heights, about which hung the smoke from the rebel batteries that thundered constantly through the day, and blazed through the night, I found the General at home. Men without fear are seldom met with, if ever. As near an approach, I think, as I have met with to that ideal I find in General Logan. An instance of his unbending will and remarkable courage and coolness I must relate: On the twenty-third, in company with his staff, he rode out to inspect his lines. The batteries on the mountain were bellowing constantly, and sweeping the woods that partially cloaked our earthworks with a perfect tornado of shell and shrapnel. The guns on the summit were not all employed when Logan and party emerged upon an open field in plain view of the enemy. The rebel gunners, thinking doubtless to appease the manes of the departed Polk with an offering of Yankee blood from the veins of a Major-General, turned against the party every battery on the mountain, which smoked like a volcano in eruption. Our batteries below replied with vigor, and for a time the very earth trembled with the explosions and reverberations. An open field lay in front, over which the General determined to make his way. A hurricane of missiles screamed across the space; some ploughed up the earth, and others, bursting, filled the air with flying fragments. The commotion and turmoil of war are conditions suited to men of his impetuous, fearless nature. To see this man inaction, one would say at once: “He is the counterpart of Murat.” And so he is. In addition to that dashing abandon which shines out so brilliantly in the character of Murat, he has the aspiring soul that quails before nothing that will and energy and daring can accomplish. He is restless, vigilant, quick-thoughted, and energetic. He is, too, firm and cool in a great crisis where those virtues are demanded, though at times, when foiled in a plan, or disappointed in any way, inclined to be petulant and irascible, or blunt and plain. Add to this a tender sensitiveness, and you have Logan in character. On the occasion to which I refer, accompanied by an Aide, he rode out into that terrible maelstrom that was meant to engulf and swallow him, halted by a few coals at a camp fire, turned coolly around, and asked his Aide for a cigar. Procuring one, he dismounted leisurely, picked up a brand, and, with an air of utterly unapproachable nonchalance, proceeded to whiff away as though he were under his own vine and fig tree. All the while the shells and shrapnel were ploughing up the earth around him and screaming wildly overhead. He just as coolly remounted, and by this time left alone by his company to the enjoyments of the occasion, slowly continued his journey along the lines. Standing at Logan's headquarters and facing southward, between you and Kenesaw Mountain lies first an open rolling strip of country, between which and the mountain lies a wooded plain. Through this latter strip runs our line of works. These, following the course of the mountain, which is east and west, after passing the eastern point, curve to the south-east, and continue in the same general direction to the Sandtown wagon-road. The Dallas and Marietta road crosses our line at about the centre. On the night of the twenty-fifth Davis was withdrawn from his position on the left of the Fourteenth corps, and Harrow, of Logan's corps, supplied the place. Davis moved over toward the centre, and lay in reserve until the twenty-seventh. Dodge's and Blair's corps were placed, the former on Logan's left, and the latter on the extreme left of the line, circling the western point of Kenesaw, and menacing the rebel right. On the night of the twenty-sixth--calm, pleasant Sabbath evening — orders were issued for a series of simultaneous assaults on the morning following along the entire line. Davis' division, of Palmer's corps, was to form an assaulting column, and Newton, of Howard's, another. I lay that night at General Mitchell's headquarters, near the Marietta road. It was necessary, of course, that brigade commanders should know and comprehend the work allotted to them, and at the headquarters of these divisions ordered to assail the enemy's works, little knots of earnest men in consultation could be seen huddled on camp-stools around maps and diagrams, giving and receiving orders, and investigating plans. Let me introduce you to one group. Just over there in the woods, before a few tents, seated on camp-stools, one of the party holding a lighted candle, sits the flinty-trusted Jeff. C. Davis, whose browned and wrinkled features have been fanned by bullets before they were tanned by the sun and heaven's breezes. Around him in council sit his brigade commanders. The two young men, whom even the dusky light of the candle will not let you mistake for other than bright, intelligent thinkers, who probe the questions before them to their core and comprehend their import as he who planned, are Colonels Daniel McCook