mosphere, and the sun this morning is the blood-red orb that rose on Chickamauga.
May its setting leave to rest and night our troops victorious, was said more than once that morning, for we all knew there would be fighting — hard, bloody fighting, done that day.
Where? Was the question every one asked and no one replied, except to guess.
No troops were stirring.
It was a quiet morning indeed.
General Sherman was seen going to the left, and General Thomas, the staid old adviser of Rosecrans, and who is the most intimate and respected adviser of General Sherman, was seen jogging quietly in the same direction.
It was determined at last by General Sherman that a high knob, the slope of which was covered with a dense growth of underbrush, should be carried by assault.
Brigadier-General Ward, the rough, stern old Kentuckian, who commands a brigade in Butterfield's division, was chosen to perform the work, and it delighted him. The assaulting force was formed in column of batta
lay the movements of a brigade.
There is an abundance of scrubby undergrowth which hides everything a few yards distant from view, and when one inspects the difficulties, it seems hardly credible — though such is the case — that we have fully developed the enemy's position with two days skirmish enterprise.
For ten days we have had more or less rain, and toward the end of the period the water descended as it only can come down in a Southern latitude.
The June rains that nearly drowned Rosecrans' army, in the advance on Tullahoma, were duplicated, and old campaigners speak of that watery siege with decreasing respect.
The bad roads became impassable.
Every body was drenched.
The trees dropped the intercepted moisture in tears as big as walnuts.
The count-less mules of the trains looked more than ever like the rodent tribe, which Norway has generaly implanted in every hemisphere, and teamsters became silent, because the dynamics of profanity were exhausted.
Skirmishers shot at