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DAILY CONSTITUTIONALIST [AUGUSTA, GA], July 2, 1864, p. 1, c. 4
Marietta and Kennesaw Mountain.
The “Local” of the Atlanta Register has been to “the front.” Hear him:
Our object being to visit the mountain, we did not tarry long in the city, which one can scarcely recognize as the quiet little watering place of years gone by. Hotels and dwelling houses have been converted into hospitals, store houses and quarters for the military, and the group of pleasure seekers lounging around, have given way to groups of convalescent soldiers—soldiers hurrying to and fro on business, soldiers on the hotel balconies, soldiers on the house tops, watching the shells bursting over the mountain in the distance. Quartermasters and commissaries, with their retinue of clerks, medical gentlemen, and members of the relief committees, with their uniforms and badges, now and then a General, with his well dressed staff on horseback, wagons and teamsters, ambulances with the sick and wounded—all kinds of looking men on horseback, and all kinds of looking men and boys on mules, and a hundred other sights incident to the rear of a large army, catch the eye as you wade through the mud of Marietta of to-day.
It is three miles to the top of Kennesaw, which looms up so plainly as you leave the city that you would hardly imagine it half the distance. Mounted upon a white horse, with “C. S.” plainly visible upon the left shoulder, which we suppose stands for “can’t swim,” or something else, we succeeded, after wading, plunging and sliding through the mud for a couple of miles, in reaching the mountain. The shells which had been screaming away in the distance became unpleasantly nearer and nearer as we ascended the acclivity, and as we were tying old Whitey in a thicket, one of them passed so near our head that we found ourselves making a profound obeissance [sic] to a rock near by.
Though[t] it wouldn’t do to stand still, and kept on up towards the mountain top. Hadn’t gone far before another one of those things with “shucks to its tail” went crashing through the trees overhead, and we went down again. Got up again, however, and traveled along the rocky path at a very lively pace, until we ensconced ourselves behind the works of the battery at the apex. After a little while, our ears becoming less nice, we strolled outside the battery, and took a good view of the army of the Cumberland spread out before us in the valley below. It was a grand sight, and one worth risking more shells than the Yankees can throw at Kennesaw to see. In the distance, the plains were dotted with Yankee tents and wagons, here and there, like little villages of Southern negro quarters; and nearer their lines and fortifications were plainly visible, apparently not over a mile or so distant.
With the aid of a glass we could see the gunners plainly as they loaded their pieces, and nearer still, could be discerned plainly with the naked eye their sharpshooters down lower in valley, popping away now and then at our men. On the little Kennesaw to our left, a battery of our guns was firing away at a Yankee battery farther down to the left, and along both lines as far as we could see, puffs of white smoke were ascending from time to time, followed by the dull booming of cannon.
The smoke of the Yankee locomotives went trailing along the tree tops, and their wagons could be seen moving down towards the left of our lines. We spent some time in looking over the shoulder of a soldier, who, with paper resting on an idle gun, was sketching the scene as it lay like a picture spread out before him.—It was hard to leave this mountain top, and the grand view which it gives, but in order to catch the two o’clock train, we clambered down the steep, rocky path, dodging, it is true, as we came in full range of the shells again, until we reached our horse, which we mounted and waded back again through the mud to Marietta.
Vicki Betts
Marietta and Kennesaw Mountain.
The “Local” of the Atlanta Register has been to “the front.” Hear him:
Our object being to visit the mountain, we did not tarry long in the city, which one can scarcely recognize as the quiet little watering place of years gone by. Hotels and dwelling houses have been converted into hospitals, store houses and quarters for the military, and the group of pleasure seekers lounging around, have given way to groups of convalescent soldiers—soldiers hurrying to and fro on business, soldiers on the hotel balconies, soldiers on the house tops, watching the shells bursting over the mountain in the distance. Quartermasters and commissaries, with their retinue of clerks, medical gentlemen, and members of the relief committees, with their uniforms and badges, now and then a General, with his well dressed staff on horseback, wagons and teamsters, ambulances with the sick and wounded—all kinds of looking men on horseback, and all kinds of looking men and boys on mules, and a hundred other sights incident to the rear of a large army, catch the eye as you wade through the mud of Marietta of to-day.
It is three miles to the top of Kennesaw, which looms up so plainly as you leave the city that you would hardly imagine it half the distance. Mounted upon a white horse, with “C. S.” plainly visible upon the left shoulder, which we suppose stands for “can’t swim,” or something else, we succeeded, after wading, plunging and sliding through the mud for a couple of miles, in reaching the mountain. The shells which had been screaming away in the distance became unpleasantly nearer and nearer as we ascended the acclivity, and as we were tying old Whitey in a thicket, one of them passed so near our head that we found ourselves making a profound obeissance [sic] to a rock near by.
Though[t] it wouldn’t do to stand still, and kept on up towards the mountain top. Hadn’t gone far before another one of those things with “shucks to its tail” went crashing through the trees overhead, and we went down again. Got up again, however, and traveled along the rocky path at a very lively pace, until we ensconced ourselves behind the works of the battery at the apex. After a little while, our ears becoming less nice, we strolled outside the battery, and took a good view of the army of the Cumberland spread out before us in the valley below. It was a grand sight, and one worth risking more shells than the Yankees can throw at Kennesaw to see. In the distance, the plains were dotted with Yankee tents and wagons, here and there, like little villages of Southern negro quarters; and nearer their lines and fortifications were plainly visible, apparently not over a mile or so distant.
With the aid of a glass we could see the gunners plainly as they loaded their pieces, and nearer still, could be discerned plainly with the naked eye their sharpshooters down lower in valley, popping away now and then at our men. On the little Kennesaw to our left, a battery of our guns was firing away at a Yankee battery farther down to the left, and along both lines as far as we could see, puffs of white smoke were ascending from time to time, followed by the dull booming of cannon.
The smoke of the Yankee locomotives went trailing along the tree tops, and their wagons could be seen moving down towards the left of our lines. We spent some time in looking over the shoulder of a soldier, who, with paper resting on an idle gun, was sketching the scene as it lay like a picture spread out before him.—It was hard to leave this mountain top, and the grand view which it gives, but in order to catch the two o’clock train, we clambered down the steep, rocky path, dodging, it is true, as we came in full range of the shells again, until we reached our horse, which we mounted and waded back again through the mud to Marietta.
Vicki Betts