long columns have filed
down from the heights, and are massed at the water's edge. It is chill
December, and the frost has eaten deep into the ruddy soil of Virginia,
but the Rappahannock flows swiftly along, uncrusted by the ice that
fetters Northern streams, yet steaming in the biting air. Fog-wreaths
rise from the rippling surface, and all along the crowded shore the
clouds hang dense and heavy. Nowhere can one see in any direction more
than a dozen yards away; all beyond is wrapped in swirling, eddying
fog-bank. Here in the thronging ranks, close at hand, men speak in low
tones as they stamp upon the frozen ground or whip their mittened hands
across the broad blue chests to restore circulation and drive the ache
and numbness away. Here and there are some who have turned their light
blue capes up over their heads, and take no part in the low-toned chat.
Leaning on their muskets, they let their thoughts go wandering far
away, for all men know that bloody work is coming. The engineers are
hammering at their bulky pontoons now, and down at the water's edge the
clumsy boats are moored, waiting for chess and balk carriers to be told
off, and the crews to man the heavy sweeps. Up on the heights to the
rear, planted thickly on every knoll and ridge, are the black-mouthed
guns, and around them are grouped the squads of ghostly, grisly,
fog-dripping cannoneers. One may walk along that line of heights for
mile after mile, and find there only grim ranges of batteries and
waiting groups of men. All is silence; all is alertness; all is fog.
Back of the lines of unlimbered cannon, sheltered as far as possible
from returning fire, the drivers and horses and the heavy-laden caissons
are shrouded in the mist-veil, and the staff officers, groping to and
fro, have to ask their way from battery to battery, or go yards beyond
their real objective point. Little fires are burning here and there, and
battery-lanterns are flickering in the gloom. Out on the face of the
stream, too, one can see from the northern shore weird, dancing lights,
like will-o'-the-wisps, go twinkling through the fog; and far across
the waters, from time to time, there is heard the sudden crack of rifle.
The Southern pickets are beginning to catch faint glimpses of those
lights, and are opening fire, for vigilant officers are there to
interpret every sound and sight, and with the first break of the wintry
dawn they grasp the meaning of the murmur that has come for hou