that separated the lines. In rear of the pickets men sank upon the ground where they stood and shivered through the night without fires, for the faintest flash of light on either side became a target for alert artillerists. A cup of hot coffee, that Dominus donari to the weary soldier, on this night of all nights when he needed it most, was denied him. All through the night the ambulances passed to and fro on the road to the hospitals, where further torture awaited the wounded, unless the angel of death kindly relieved them of the ministrations of the surgeons. A space twenty yards in front of the White House, near Overall’s Creek, was covered with the mangled forms of men awaiting their turn upon the operating tables. Inside were groups of surgeons with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, their brawny arms red with blood, one handling the saw, another the knife, another the probe, while others bound up the bleeding stumps and turned the patient, henceforth the Nation’s ward, over to nurses, who bore them tenderly away. In a corner lay a ghastly heap of arms and legs and hands and feet, useless forevermore. The busy fingers which had indited the last fond message to the anxious wife or mother would never caress them more. Does this horrible recital grate upon the ear? It is as much a part of the history of a battle as is the furious charge and repulse from which it resulted. Forty years have passed since that awful scene was witnessed. The stalwart young men left upon the firing line are old men now, and, in the judgment of some chiefs of bureaus, too old to longer serve the Government.

The writer, returning from a ride along the lines, where he had been under orders to see that all fires were extinguished, came upon a regular battery, in the rear of which, at the bottom of a trench of glowing coals, the artillerists were cooking supper. The savory smell of broiling steak and steaming pots of coffee saluted his nostrils. Dismounting, he was at once invited to partake of a soldier’s hospitality. His tired horse was fed, and in a moment he received at the hands of a grizzly veteran a cup of coffee and a cake of hard bread, covered with juicy steak, tender and succulent. His meal dispatched, he was about to remount and ride back to headquarters, when he was asked if he knew where the steak came from. He said he did not, but that it was the best he ever ate. “Come here, and I will show you,” said the sergeant. He led the way a few yards distant where an artillery horse lay dead, killed by a cannon ball. His flank had been stripped of the skin, and the tender, juicy steak that had contributed to the enjoyment of the writer had been cut from the flesh.

At army headquarters a strange scene, revealing the characteristics of the prominent commanding officers, was presented. With prudent regard for the safety of his supplies, General Rosecrans had ordered the subsistence train back to Nashville, thus enabling him to manoeuver his army without regard to front or rear. There was no indication that Bragg contemplated withdrawal, and the prevailing impression was that a heavy assault would be made upon some point of the Union line early in the morning. Where would the blow fall? Would the line at that point be strong enough to resist it? Has Bragg any troops that have not been engaged? Are reinforcements for him on the way? were questions more easily asked than answered.

Mounting his horse, the commanding general rode to the rear, accompanied by General Stanley and a few staff officers. Past the hospital, to Overall’s Creek, the group of horsemen pursued their way. In the fields on both sides of the road the darkness was dispelled by bivouac fires lighted by the straggling soldiery of the right wing. Along the pike the long supply train moved slowly and steadily toward Nashville, while here and there a few wagons