These men knew that a terrible day’s fighting lay before them; but the previous defeat of Thursday rankled in their proud hearts, and each man felt it as an individual reproach which must be swept away. From the central column to the rear, this feeling prevailed among the men. The troops of the old Bay State, of Rhode Island, Connecticut, and New York, entered into a spirit of generous rivalry. Ohio, Michigan, Wisconsin and Minnesota entered the list with true Western fervor, while the rich Celtic humor rose in fun and pathos from the Irish troops. The officers shared this enthusiasm with their men. Tyler moved on, burning to atone for his noble rashness at Blackburn’s Ford—Burnside, Corcoran, Keyes, Spidel, Meagher, and many another noble fellow, thought exultingly of the laurels to be gathered on the morrow. General McDowell’s carriage halted at the two roads, a spot that he deemed most convenient for receiving despatches from the various points of the battle-field. Here the column of General Hunter diverged from the main body and went away through the moonlit country on its assigned duty, which led him around the enemy’s flank by a long and harassing route. With him went Heintzelman, Porter, Burnside and Sprague with their valiant Rhode Islanders, and Wilcox, that bravest of young men and most brilliant author, who met a fate almost worse than death in the hottest of the coming battle. There, too, was Slocum, Haggerty, and many another valiant fellow, marching forward to a glorious death. Each and all of these, with their regiments or brigades, swept to the right, to meet their comrades again in the hottest of the battle. A mile from the Cross Roads, and the dawn of a bright July day broke pleasantly on the moving troops—a morning cool with dew, fresh with verdure, and tranquil and peaceful, save for the armed men that made the earth tremble under their solid tread as they moved over it. The mists of a dewy night were slowly uplifted, and beautiful reaches of the country were revealed. On the left was the station assigned to Richardson and Davies; beyond it, the valley which one unfortunate conflict had so lately stained with blood. When Tyler’s division came to the edge of a wooded hill overlooking these scenes, the sun arose, flooding them with rosy splendor. The soldiers knew, but could not realize that this scene, so beautiful and tranquil, had been a field of carnage, and would, before that sun went down, be red with the blood of many a brave heart beating among them then. They knew well that in a brief time the pure atmosphere, which it was now a joy to breathe, would be heavy with stifling smoke; that the noble forests whose leaves trembled so pleasantly in the newborn sunshine, were but a concealment for masked batteries—fearful engines of destruction, and men more ravenous for their lives than the wild animals that civilization had driven away from them.