While it is no part of my duty, in this narrative, to criticise military movements, and especially those of the Union forces, I may state that the total absence of cavalry pickets from General Grant’s army was a matter of perfect amazement to the Rebel officers.  There were absolutely none on Grant’s left, where General Breckenridge’s division was meeting him, so that we were able to come up within hearing of their drums entirely unperceived.

The Southern generals always kept cavalry pickets out for miles, even when no enemy was supposed to be within a day’s march of them.  The infantry pickets of Grant’s forces were not above three-fourths of a mile from his advance camps, and they were too few to make any resistance.  With these facts all made known to our head-quarters on Saturday evening, our army was arranged for battle with the certainty of a surprise, and almost the assurance of a victory.  Every regiment was carefully and doubly guarded, so that no man might glide away from our ranks and put the Union forces on their guard.  This I noted particularly, as I was studying plans of escape that night, that I might put the loyal forces on their guard against the fearful avalanche ready to be hurled upon them.  I already saw that they would stand no fair chance for victory, taken completely at unawares.  But the orders were imperative to allow no man to leave the ranks, and to shoot the first who should attempt it on any pretence.  Then of the nature of the ground between the opposing forces I knew nothing, except that it was said to be crossed and seamed by swamps, in many places almost impassable by daylight, much more so at night.  If, then, I should attempt to desert, I must run the gauntlet of our own double guard, risk the chance of making the three or four miles through woods and swamps in deep darkness, and the more hazardous chance, on reaching the Federal lines, of being shot by their pickets.  I was therefore compelled to relinquish the hope of escape that night—­a sad necessity, for if I had succeeded, it might have saved many Union lives.

About eight o’clock P.M. a council of war was held among the principal generals, and the plan of battle arranged.  In an open space, with a dim fire in the midst, and a drum on which to write, you could see grouped around their “little Napoleon,” as Beauregard was sometimes fondly called, ten or twelve generals, the flickering light playing over their eager faces, while they listened to his plans and made suggestions as to the conduct of the fight.  He soon warmed with his subject, and throwing off his cloak to give free play to his arms, he walked about in the group, gesticulating rapidly, and jerking out his sentences with a strong French accent.  All listened attentively, and the dim light just revealing their countenances showed their different emotions of confidence or distrust in his plans.  General Sidney Johnson stood apart from the rest, with his tall straight form standing out like a specter against