Lonely and uninhabited in its normal condition, this forbidding wilderness had become peopled with thousands of men.  The Army of the Potomac was penetrating and seeking to pass through it.  Vigilant General Lee had observed the movement, and with characteristic boldness and skill ordered his troops from their strong intrenchments on Mine Run toward the Union flank.  On this memorable morning the van of his columns wakened from their brief repose but a short distance from the Federal bivouac.  Both parties were unconscious of their nearness, for with the exception of a few clearings the dense growth restricted vision to a narrow range.  The Union forces were directed in their movements by the compass, as if they were sailors on a fog-enshrouded sea; but they well knew that they were seeking their old antagonist, the Army of Northern Virginia, and that the stubborn tug-of-war might begin at any moment.

When Captain Nichol shook off the lethargy of a brief troubled sleep, he found that the light did not banish his gloomy impressions.  Those immediately around him were still slumbering, wrapped in their blankets.  Few sounds other than the voices of the awakening birds broke the silence.  After a little thought he drew his notebook from his pocket and wrote as follows: 

“My darling Helen—­I obey an impulse to write to you this morning.  It is scarcely light enough to see as yet; but very soon we shall be on the move again to meet—­we known not what, certainly heavy, desperate fighting.  I do not know why I am so sad.  I have faced the prospect of battles many times before, and have passed through them unharmed, but now I am depressed by an unusual foreboding.  Naturally my thoughts turn to you.  There was no formal engagement between us when I said those words (so hard to speak) of farewell, nor have I sought to bind you since.  Every month has made more clear the uncertainty of life in my calling; and I felt that I had no right to lay upon you any restraint other than that of your own feelings.  If the worst happened you would be free as far as I was concerned, and few would know that we had told each other of our love.  I wish to tell you of mine once more—­not for the last time, I hope, but I don’t know.  I do love you with my whole heart and soul; and if I am to die in this horrible wilderness, where so many of my comrades died a year ago, my last thoughts will be of you and of the love of God, which your love has made more real to me.  I love you too well to wish my death, should it occur, to spoil your young life.  I do not ask you to forget me—­that would be worse than death, but I ask you to try to be happy and to make others happy as the years pass on.  This bloody war will come to an end, will become a memory, and those who perish hope to be remembered; but I do not wish my memory to hang like a cloud over the happy days of peace.  I close, my darling, in hope, not fear—­ hope for you, hope for me, whatever may happen to-day or on coming days of strife.  It only remains for me to do my duty.  I trust that you will also do yours, which may be even harder.  Do not give way to despairing grief if I cannot come back to you in this world.  Let your faith in God and hope of a future life inspire and strengthen you in your battles, which may require more courage and unselfishness than mine.