That night both armies lay on their arms.  Burnside, notwithstanding that he spent several hours amongst the troops before Fredericksburg, and found that both officers and men were opposed to further attack, decided to renew the battle the next day.  His arrangements became known to Lee, an officer or orderly carrying dispatches having strayed within the Confederate outposts,* (* From Manassas to Appomattox page 316.) and the Southern generals looked forward, on the morning of the 14th, to a fresh attack, a more crushing repulse, and a general counterstroke.

Such cheerful anticipations, however, so often entertained by generals holding a strong defensive position, are but seldom realised, and Fredericksburg was no exception.  The Confederates spent the night in diligent preparation.  Supplies of ammunition were brought up and distributed, the existing defences were repaired, abattis cut and laid, and fresh earthworks thrown up.  Jackson, as usual on the eve of battle, was still working while others rested.  Until near midnight he sat up writing and dispatching orders; then, throwing himself, booted and spurred, on his camp bed, he slept for two or three hours, when he again arose, lighted his candle, and resumed his writing.  Before four o’clock he sent to his medical director to inquire as to the condition of General Gregg.  Dr. McGuire reported that his case was hopeless, and Jackson requested that he would go over and see that he had everything he wished.  Somewhat against his will, for there were many wounded who required attention, the medical officer rode off, but scarcely had he entered the farmhouse where Gregg was lying, than he heard the tramp of horses, and Jackson himself dismounted on the threshold.  The brigadier, it appears, had lately fallen under the ban of his displeasure; but from the moment his condition was reported, Jackson forgot everything but the splendid services he had rendered on so many hard-fought fields; and in his anxiety that every memory should be effaced which might embitter his last moments, he had followed Dr. McGuire to his bedside.

The interview was brief, and the dying soldier was the happier for it; but the scene in that lonely Virginian homestead, where, in the dark hours of the chill December morning, the life of a strong man, of a gallant comrade, of an accomplished gentleman, and of an unselfish patriot—­for Gregg was all these—­was slowly ebbing, made a deeper impression on those who witnessed it than the accumulated horrors of the battle-field.  Sadly and silently the general and his staff officer rode back through the forest, where the troops were already stirring round the smouldering camp-fires.  Their thoughts were sombre.  The Confederacy, with a relatively slender population, could ill spare such men as Gregg.  And yet Jackson, though yielding to the depression of the moment, and deploring the awful sacrifices which the defence of her liberties imposed upon the South, was in no melting mood.  Dr. McGuire, when they reached headquarters, put a question as to the best means of coping with the overwhelming numbers of the enemy.  “Kill them, sir! kill every man!” was the reply of the stern soldier who but just now, with words of tender sympathy and Christian hope, had bade farewell to his dying comrade.