AN HOUR WITH VICTORY. BY JAMES S. OSTRANDER, Late First Lieutenant Eighteenth U. S. I. No story of the Army of the Cumberland can be so fitly. introduced to an audience of soldiers, as by the linking with its chain the name of the great commander, whose imperishable renown is the rich inheritance of all, and whose veneration lies next the heart of the corps and army that followed his standard through the years of the Nation's trial, and leaning on his strong arm, with the firm trust of children, never knew defeat. In the hour of peril, at Stone River, when the right had met disaster and the flushed lines of gray swept down to ingulf the center, we saw order born from chaos and the full tide of victory stayed, because "the hand of the master compelled it to pause." We saw him, in the cold chill of that terrible September day, at Chickamauga, when the lines had been broken and two-thirds of the army was drifting back to Chattanooga, gather around him the fragments of the wreck, and firm as the hills against which he leaned, roll back the billows of war that beat against him until the sun went down. We saw him at Chattanooga, launching against the heights of Mission Ridge the thunderbolt that burned through the lines of gray veterans, and sent them reeling in defeat across the river of death. We saw him at Nashville, calm, silent, immovable, resisting the impatience of high places until the hour had come, and then sweeping the enemy's lines with the besom of destruction. At last, when the great work was ended, and the country he had done so much to save stood foremost of the nations, we saw him die. I wish I might say, honored to the limit of his great deserving; but if the iron of ingratitude ever entered the soul of George H. Thomas, the true heart made no sign. He died, and the cheeks of grizzled veterans, "unused to the melting mood," were seamed with tears, as the loved commander passed onward to the Grand Army beyond the stars. Great soldier, tried patriot, hail and farewell! "This earth that bears thee, dead, Bears not alive so stout a gentleman." Borne down at Chickamauga, saved from utter extinction by the superb fight for life made by Thomas, the Army of the Cumberland fell back to Chattanooga, and turned at bay on the foe that frowned down upon it from the encircling heights of Mission Ridge and Lookout. Its line of supply severed, a navigable river at its back, a powerful and exultant enemy on its front and flanks; it seemed to the most hopeful that the hours of the Army of the Cumberland were numbered. Sixty-three days the devoted command faced the enemy and shoveled and starved; while from the guns of Lookout came daily warning that the foe was impatient to be in at the death. All this time, the earnest, anxious North is alive to its army's peril, and day and night the throbbing steam monsters, with their loads of human freight, are sweeping the miles behind them in a race against starvation, with the life of a gallant army for the stakes. From the veterans of the East and the West come needed and trusty aid, and at last, in the mountains of Tennessee, the united forces stand shoulder to shoulder. Hooker, with three divisions of as many armies, has fought his dramatic battle above the clouds, swept Lookout clean of the rebel host, descended to the valley of Chattanooga, and now directs his force up the valley to fall on the rebel flank at Rossville. Yonder, on the left, where the ridge dips to the waters of the Tennessee, Sherman has crossed to the south bank, effected a lodgment on the ridge, and is pounding, with blow on blow of the great northern hammer, at the rebel right. Here, in the center, in front of Chattanooga, Thomas holds the Army of the Cumberland inactive; all its thunders pent up, waiting the delopment of the turning movements, then to hurl it against the rebel center. This, then, briefly sketched, is the position of the armies on the afternoon of November 25, 1863. Hooker, on the right, making a turning movement; Sherman, on the left, with a lodgment on the hill, and heavily engaged; Thomas in the center, and waiting. Beyond the valley, a mile away, crowning the heights with infantry and artillery, lies the rebel army, waiting, too, except where Sherman knocks so persistently. Half past three o'clock of that short November day; what work there is to do must be done quickly, if the night looks down on victory. From the group of officers on Orchard Knob shoot out, like arrows from a bow, four aides bearing orders, big with the fate of the Army of the Cumberland and the cause; down the lines of the four waiting divisions without a pause, and as each commander is found, other horsemen take up the cry, and the minutes are few until every man in the expectant army knows the work before him. At the signal of six guns from Orchard Knob, Baird, Wood, Sheridan, Johnson, with their divisions, veterans of Stone River and Chickamauga, will advance, carry the rifle-pits at the foot of the hill, reform, and storm the heights. Never in the history of the war were soldiers charged with the execution of an order more momentous; never with a task more herculean. A mile of valley to be traversed under the fire of half a hundred guns, and beyond that, rising six hundred feet against the sky line, the ridge, bristling from base to crown with veteran infantry that has crossed bayonets with its assailants on more than one bloody field; a searching sweep of the glass reveals, of these gray veterans, a continuous line at the base, a partial line midway, and a continuous line at the summit. It is a walk and climb to fatigue a robust man, making the journey at his leisure and unopposed. Now, every foot of the way beset with peril, "stormed at with shot and shell;" it is the valley of the dark shadow leading "Into the jaws of death Into the mouth of hell." You have all felt the terrible calm before the battle, the anxious moments before the order to advance, and while the assaulting column waits it thinks, and thoughts fly fast at such times. This soldier, with nervous eagerness, reads a letter too sacred for other eyes, and the fragments are given to the winds, while "Something upon the soldier's cheek, That one has a picture, "eyes look your last, lips take your last embrace," and close over the soldier's heart it rests like an amulet. Hear that boyish recruit "jest at scars;" it is his first battle. Yonder sits one, rapt, silent; this Southern battle picture, with its marshaled armies, has faded away, and there, across the fields, by the roadside, stands the old farm-house; to-morrow is Thanksgiving day, and, in this far away Northern home, the family will gather at the fireside, trace through the columns of the weekly paper the movements of the Army of the Cumberland; watch with anxious hearts for the mention of one brigade, one regiment, and wonder, with choking voices, how it fares with their brave soldier, whose chair stands vacant at the hearth-aye, how will it fare to-morrow, and that hill to climb to-night! The girls serve the dinner-one of mother's best dinners; there at table sits white-haired father, with his hands clasped across his plate, to ask the blessing that in days gone by has fallen so often on unheeding ears, and by his side, the tears welling from her eyes at thoughts of her brave soldier boy-she knows him brave-its dear devoted old mother, tender and true. God bless every hair of her old gray head! And sisters he is penitent this afternoon-should the last sleep come to-night; from the top of that death-crowned ridge, may all the boyish wrongs be forgiven. Mother, father, sisters, may God bless-Fall in! Lively, now, men! Hear the guns! Right, dress! Front! Right shoulder shift, arms! Forward, guide center, double quick, march !—and the divisions are away, the thunderbolt is hurled. Now, good Christian people, in your Northern homes, down on your knees before the Lord of Hosts, and until |