Sixty thousand matchless grey infantry crouched among
those bushes and lay beside stone walls, in sunken roadways or newly
turned trenches.
The great fan-shaped death-trap had been carefully planned and set by a
master mind. Only a handful of sharpshooters and a few pieces of
artillery had been left in Fredericksburg to dispute the passage of the
river and deceive Burnside with a pretense of defending the town.
The Confederate soldier was ragged and his shoes were tied together with
strings. His uniform consisted of an old hat or cap usually without a
brim, a shirt of striped bed-ticking so brown it seemed woven of the
grass. The buttons were of discolored cow's horn. His coat was the color
of Virginia dust and mud, and it was out at the elbow. His socks were
home-made, knit by loving hands swift and tender in their endless work
of love. The socks were the best things he had.
The one spotless thing about him was his musket and the bayonet he
carried at his side. His spirits were high.
A barefooted soldier had managed to get home and secure a pair of boots.
He started back to his regiment hurrying to be on time for the fight.
The new boots hurt him so terribly he couldn't wear them. He passed
Ned's regiment with his precious footgear hanging on his arm.
"Hello, Sonny, what command?" Ned cried.
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