r the night,
leaving a few regiments to hold the plain in front of the bridge. It was
the intention of the commanding general to press the enemy closely in
front with the Right and Center grand divisions, while the Left division
was to make a flank movement on the right of the enemy's line, seizing
the road to Bowling Green, and rendering the rebel position untenable.

Before dawn on the following morning, we made our way again to the
river. Thousands crowded upon the banks, or hurriedly dashed across the
bridge. The rumble of wheels upon the frozen ground, the tramp of
thousands of men, the neighing of innumerable horses, mingled with the
roar of musketry. The sun rose in splendor, and the spires of the city,
two miles to our right, shone brightly, for only the lower part of the
town had been destroyed by the conflagration of the day before, and tens
of thousands of muskets gleamed in the morning light. The broad plain,
on the south bank, swarmed with the hosts of Franklin and Hooker.
Musketry fire became more and more brisk, as our forces moved into
position, but no general engagement came on. Shells from the rebel
batteries came bursting in our midst, and in reply, our own guns on
Stafford Heights sent their shells screaming over our heads, to burst in
the midst of the rebel artillerists.

A fine stone mansion of large dimensions, situated on the south bank of
the river, and a little below the bridge, was taken by the surgeons of
our Second division, for a hospital. The position was exposed to the
rebel fire, but it was the best that could be found. Just in front of it
the gallant General Bayard, of the cavalry, was struck by a shell, and
killed instantly. Others, some of whom had been previously been wounded,
received fatal shots at the very doors of the house. The owner of this
magnificent mansion still remained in it. He was an old secesh bachelor,
very aristocratic in his notions, and highly incensed at the use his
house was put to by the "hireling Yankees." But he was taken care of by
a guard. His servants cooked for the wounded and our surgeons; his fine
larder furnished us delicacies and his cellar rich old wines.

Doubtless his feelings on delivering to us the keys of his wine cellar
were not unlike those of Sir Hugh Berkley in "The Wagoner;" who

"--only knew they drank his wine;
Would they might hang, a scarecrow line,
On the next lightning blasted tree."

Saturday, the sun appeared, bright and w