The day was one of terrific heat--the first of September. The
President's description of the famous fighter and the tremendous
responsibility which was now being placed on his shoulders had roused
John's curiosity to the highest pitch.
The General was seated in an arm chair in the yard under a great oak.
His coat was unbuttoned and he had tilted back against the tree in a
comfortable position reading a newspaper. His black slouch hat was
pulled far down over his face.
John saluted:
"This is General Sherman?"
"Yes," was the quick, pleasant answer as the tall, gaunt form slowly
rose.
John noted his striking and powerful personality--the large frame,
restless hazel eyes, fine aquiline nose, bronzed features and cropped
beard. His every movement was instinct with the power of perfect
physical manhood, forty-four years old, the incarnation of health and
wiry strength.
"I come from Washington, General," John continued, "and bear a special
message from the President."
"From the President! Oh, come inside then."
The tall figure moved with quick, nervous energy. In ten minutes
couriers were dashing from his headquarters in every direction.
At one o'clock that night the big movement of his withdrawal from the
siege lines began. He had no intention of hurling his men against those
deadly trenches.
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