With Atlanta blazing in the background, the long night march from Atlanta to Lovejoy was nothing but tiresome.  Your regiment is marching to Lovejoy to support your outnumbered comrades who are already booming in battle with the enemy just after Jonesborough fell.

As the sun rises from the east, the little town of McDonough is 3 miles behind you.  Imagine spending a long morning march on the McDonough Road tramping along in step with thousands of uniformed strangers toward Lovejoy.  The hot sun bears down on you and clouds of dust render a nip from your canteen almost pointless.  Adding to your aggravation is the heavy load of your gear weighing you down.  Even though you had stripped down to the bare necessities since Atlanta fell the night before, you still have 10 to 13 pounds of other stuff to lug topped off with the 10-pound rifle leaning on your shoulder.

As you pass Mt. Carmel Church, you hear the thunder of Confederate Major General Patrick R. Cleburne’s artillery several miles ahead.  You know that “Old Pat” is already engaging the enemy at Lovejoy.  Just after your forces pass Babb’s Mill suddenly the masses in front of you come to a halt; officers shout orders and you follow your comrades into thick woods, looking forward to rest and coffee.  Instead, your company is rushed toward the sound of gunfire and within minutes you find yourself arrayed in a battle line.

Only a broad clearing at the Nash Farm separates you from thousands of enemy soldiers.  Shaky nerves turn your arms to rubber making it nearly impossible to load and shoulder your rifle.  As the order comes to fire you hesitate, unable to take your eyes off the smoke-shrouded lines of soldiers shooting in your direction.  Two years ago you were plowing fields. Many times you’ve “seen the elephant” and want no more of it.

Since the Atlanta Campaign began in May of 1864 you have already participated in 33 battles and have learned the harsh realities of soldering – poor food; exposure to the elements; long, brutal marches – you have somehow adapted.  But once again, you have to face down battlefield fear.

As an experienced veteran, you have taken the steps to prepare yourself for battle. Months of drilling have taught you how to handle, load and fire your weapon.  But now you are far away from the training ground. At once the bullets come whistling by and suddenly the huge roar of battle makes you feel easily broken.

Shaking with excitement, adrenaline and fright, you forget to pull the ramrod from the rifle barrel and fumble away your percussion cap.  With artillery shells shearing away off tree limbs above you and bullets thumping into bodies on each side of you, fear has caused you to fire blindly into the air.

With the blinding speed of this battle, you feel you might be facing death for the first time and you realize that “men are heroes or cowards in spite of themselves.”  Even though you are nervous and brave at the same time, you calm yourself down with your faith.  As much as anything else, for the last week you have prayed for the strength to do your duty on the battlefield. 

As you load another mini-ball into the throat of your rifle, Major General Alexander P. Stewart comes riding down the line on his horse “Sweet Will.”  General Stewart yells out, “Stand your ground boys, steady, steadfast now!”   

Again, thoughts quickly gather in your mind that this could be your last battle. “If downed between the hail of shot and shell, will my hastily buried body fill a nameless grave?…without military honors?…without a religious ceremony?” 

For another hour and a half the battle rages around you and just as fast as the battle opened up, fresh men are hurried to replace your decimated battle line.

As you pull your wounded comrades from the tormenting battlefield you ponder, "Will the pages of history recount in towering language my courage on this field and my devotion to my country?  Will the pages of history describe the ones who fell in the forefront here at Lovejoy?  Will today’s battle, ever near the flashing of guns, be framed in the memories of all that admires true heroism?

After Jonesborough fell, Atlanta did fall and the remaining Confederate soldiers in Atlanta marched via McDonough to the pending Battle at Lovejoy. Lovejoy was a wonderful exhibition of courage, steadfastness and suffering, which no disaster could diminish, no defeat darken.  Being completely out-numbered, no earthly mandate can compel men to embrace death with rapture, unless their God-given consciences are stamped with approval of the motives which control their conduct.

So there he stood, with the old, torn slouch hat, that bright eye, the cheek colored by exposure and painted by excitement, the face stained with powder, with jacket rent, trousers torn and the blanket in shreds, printing in the dust of battle the tracks of his shoeless feet.  So described here is the Southern soldier who faced the enemy at Lovejoy.