The coming of night found all quiet on the lines. In the late afternoon, and early night, we could plainly hear the sound of,--what we took to be,--wagon trains and artillery, over in the enemy's lines, passing off to our right. We got therefrom the impression that the Federals were leaving our front and that by morning they would all be gone. So we were not surprised when a courier came with the orders from headquarters that we should get our guns out of the works, limber up, and be ready to move at daylight. =Having "A Cannon Handy"= We drew our gun from its place at the works, up the little incline we had made for its more easy running forward, hitched its trail to the pintle-hook of the limber, chocked the wheels, and left it there until we should move. The men picked out the least wet spots they could find, and lay down to sleep. Everybody was very tired, nearly worn out with the incessant work, and marching, and watching, and fighting, of the last seven or eight days and nights. This was the first really quiet night we had known for a week! The quiet and the assurance that the enemy was gone from our front, and that there was no need to bother about them, lulled the men into deep slumber. The infantry was all stretched out along the lines sleeping, and even the pickets out in front were, I am sure, sound asleep. Every soul of our cannoneers was asleep, except Sergt. Dan. McCarthy, Beau Barnes, Jack Booker, and myself. We sat together, by the gun, talking and smoking until midnight. Then Jack said he would go to bed, and did. We three, McCarthy, Barnes and I, continued our conversation for some time longer, for no special reason, except perhaps, that we were too tired to move, and we sat there, in the dark, listening to the rumbling of heavy wheels over in the Federal lines, and talking about the events of the last few days, speculating about what was to come. Then our thoughts ran on other days, and scenes, and the folks at home, and we talked about these until we became quite sentimental.