To day we expect to meet the foe, who threaten to dispute our passage across Town Creek. The morning is beautiful, nature is smiling, and the sun is far up, moving on in its path of blue. The soldiers are ordered to rest themselves as much as possible, for the indications are that much will be demanded of them ere the sun sinks to rest. Looking beneath a tall pine our eyes rest upon a soldier leaning against its base, with his musket on his arm. His head is bowed, and his eyes are closed. We imagine that he is dreaming,—that shadows of light are flitting through his spirit's chamber. He now arises, and we discover that it is our poet soldier, Sergeant S. F. Flint. Our eyes follow him as he is now seated with his pencil and paper. His genius is now at work, and soon after the artillery commences to send forth its harsh echoes over the hills and through the vales of Alabama, he produces the following:
THE SOLDIERS WAYSIDE DREAM.The word was "rest;" the dusty road was rocky, worn and steep,
And many a sun-browned soldier's face sank on his breast to sleep.
Afar the Alabama hills swept round in billowy lines,
The soft green of their bowery slopes was dotted dark with pines,
And from their tops a gentle breeze, born in the cloudless sky,
Stole through the valley where a stream was slowly warbling by;
And as it passed it brought a cloud of odor in its plumes,
Of violets and columbines, and milk-white plum tree blooms.
The coolness and the perfume o'er my weary senses crept,
And with my musket on my arm I bowed my head and slept;
No more the Alabama hills, no more the waving pines,
But still the scent of violets and red wild columbines.
I drew my breath in ecstacy, my feet were shod with joy,
I dreamed I trod the prairie sod in my beautiful Illinois,
The lark sung welcome in the grass the well known path along,
And the pulsations of my heart seemed echoes of his song.
I thought the sunlight never shone so gloriously before,
But sweeter were the smiles of love that met me at the door.
O! hold my hand while yet you may, love of my earlier years,
And wet my face, my mother, with thy proud and happy tears,
And bless me again, my father, bless me again, I pray,
I hear the bugle, I hear the drum, I have but one hour to stay.
Alas! my dreaming words were true, I woke and knew it all,
I heard the clamor of the drum, I heard the captain's call,
And over all another voice I oft had heard before
A sound that stirs the dullest heart-the cannon's muffled roar.
It will tell of the fearful glory of a battle lost and won,
And ere the breath of its blackened lips has time to lift away,
My hand must be red and warm with blood, or white and cold as clay.
O! pray for me in thy gentle heart, love of my earlier years,
And mother, only weep for me those proud and happy tears,
And bless again, my father, bless me while yet you may,
My dream words may be doubly true I may have but an hour to stay.
The troops are now in line, skirmishers are deployed forward towards the creek and they soon discover the rebels in force with considerable artillery on the rise beyond the creek. While advancing, the enemy open upon them with their batteries, whereupon our batteries are placed in position and made to play with a telling effect upon the enemy. For about one hour a fierce artillery duel is kept up by the contending forces; the distance being so far between nothing serious is accomplished. Though there is a terrible clamor and a deafening thunder, the flying monsters from the rebel artillery pass harmlessly over our heads or fall a short distance before us. The division is now drawn up in battle line with the intention of effecting a crossing over the creek. While thus drawn up in line of battle, the mail messenger brings us a mail, and there, unmindful of shot and shell flying around us, we read the little love freighted missives; some almost forget that the dogs of war are barking as they peruse the lines from the home circle, for no doubt they may be thinking that perhaps these will be the last lines they will ever receive from mother or sister, for ere 'tis night they may lay themselves down to take the soldier's last sleep. The division now advances; and when within a short distance of the creek, Colonel Rowett is ordered to deploy the Seventh forward on a skirmish line to support the pioneers while building a bridge for the infantry. The artillery firing now ceases. A crossing is soon prepared and the division passes over and forms in line of battle; the skirmish line advances, followed by the division's compact and solid battle line, which moves firmly and in order presenting a grand and imposing scene on this Alabama cotton field; but it all ends with slight skirmishing. The cautious Roddy would not stand, but retreated into the mountains leaving General Dodge the undisputed possession of the beautiful Tuscumbia Valley. To-night all the division recross Town Creek, except our regiment and the Second Iowa, which are ordered to remain on this side as an outpost. We sleep quietly to night, knowing that the enemy is far away.
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