"They're waitin' for you as a cat waits for a mouse." Upon a steep ridge called Abbott's Hill, the Union soldiers, tired and sleepy, had thrown themselves upon the wet ground.

There was a dense fog, shutting out the moon and stars, and shrouding the lonely mountain in darkness.

The rain was driven in blinding gusts into the faces of the shivering men, and tired as they were they hailed with joy the coming of morning.

For more than one brave man it was destined to be his last day upon earth.
At four o'clock they started on their march.

About daybreak, while rounding a hill, their advance guard was charged upon by a body of Confederate horsemen.