Just as the gray shadows in the east betokened the ushering in of the short January day, the crack! crack! of guns in front told that the Federal pickets had been alarmed. The sharp reports of those guns as they echoed back along the mud-stained ranks caused the weary soldier to forget his weariness. The cold was no longer felt, the excitement of the coming battle sent the blood tingling through the veins.
It is time to turn now to General Thomas and his little army that lay encamped at Logan's Cross Roads in the darkness and shadows of that gloomy night. Couriers had been sent back to hurry up the rear brigade; orders had been sent to General Schoepf to at once forward three regiments, but General Thomas well knew if he was attacked in the morning none of these reinforcements would reach him.
The general sat in his tent, listening to Fred giving an account of what had happened at Somerset during the three weeks he had been there. He was especially interested in the account Fred gave of his picket fight.
"That, Shackelford," said the general, "was strategy worthy of a much older head. Your little fight was also admirably managed."
"I had rather it had been against any one than my cousin," answered Fred.
"Such things cannot be avoided," answered Thomas, with a sigh. "This is an unhappy war. I am a Virginian, and must fight against those who are near and dear to me."
Fred did not answer; he was thinking of his father.
The general sat as if buried in deep thought for a moment, and then suddenly looking up, said:
"Shackelford, you know when we were going into camp this evening that you said you feared an attack in the morning."
"I am almost positive of it, General," was Fred's reply.