It is now six o'clock of Saturday, May 2, 1863, a lovely spring evening.
The Eleventh Corps lies quietly in position. Supper-time is at hand.
Arms are stacked on the line; and the men, some with accoutrements hung
upon the stacks, some wearing their cartridge-boxes, are mostly at the
fires cooking their rations, careless of the future, in the highest
spirits and most vigorous condition. Despite the general talk during
the entire afternoon, among officers and rank and file alike, of a
possible attack down the pike, all but a few are happily unsuspicious of
the thunder-cloud gathering on their flank. There is a general feeling
that it is too late to get up much of a fight to-day.

The breastworks are not very substantial. They are hastily run up out
of rails from the fences, logs from barns in the vicinity, and newly
felled trees. The ditch skirting the road has been deepened for this
temporary purpose. Abattis, to a fair extent, has been laid in front.
But the whole position faces to the south, and is good for naught else.

Nor were our men in those days as clever with the spade as we afterwards
became. This is clearly shown in the defences.

There is some carelessness apparent. Ambulances are close by the line.
Ammunition-wagons and the train of pack-mules are mixed up with the
regiments. Even a drove of beeves is herded in the open close by.
All these properly belong well to the rear. Officers' servants and
camp-gear are spread abroad in the vicinity of each command, rather more
comfortably ensconced than the immediate presence of the enemy may
warrant.