The rain came intermittently, a pattering of silver drops that plinked on the brim of my canvas hat. In the distance I heard thunder, the dog day’s low growl.
This, I thought, was what they must have felt: the heat, the wet, the dirt. As the troops marched toward East Atlanta, hoping to surprise an army, they had to deal with another enemy: Georgia itself.
The rain increased. I cursed it. For a moment, standing under an oak tree growing on the edge of Moreland Avenue, I felt a connection with men who’d been here in 1864.