It spoke in the brute
strength of his powerful body as his marching feet struck the ground, in
the iron look about his broad shoulders, the careless strength with
which he carried his musket as if it were a feather, and above all in
the hard cold glint from his shining eyes set straight in front.
She lay awake for hours on the little white cot at the headquarters of
the ambulance corps reviewing her life and dropped to sleep at last with
a deep sense of gratitude to God that she was free, and could give
herself in unselfish devotion to her country. Her last waking thoughts
were of Ned Vaughan and the sweet, foolish worship he had laid at her
feet. She wondered vaguely if he were in those grey lines beyond the
river. Ned Vaughan was there this time--back with his regiment.
Lee, Jackson and Longstreet had known for days that a battle was
imminent. Their scouts from over the river had brought positive
information. The Confederate leaders had already planned the conflict.
Their battle lines circled the hills beyond Fredericksburg, spread out
in a crescent, five miles long. Nature had piled these five miles of
hills around Fredericksburg as if to build an impregnable fortress. On
every crest, concealed behind trees and bushes, the Confederate
artillery was in place--its guns trained to sweep the wide plain with a
double cross fire, besides sending a storm of shot and shell straight
from the centre.
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