December 12th. We lay on the Phillips farm until about 8 A. M., then crossed over the pontoon bridge at the Lacy house and marched to the lower part of the town, directly opposite the old ferry dock, our left resting on the steamboat wharf; here we stacked arms, and the men keeping reasonably near to their pieces, were allowed to move about as they pleased. Brigade headquarters were established on the piazza of an old ramshackle house, at the corner of a deep cut, leading up to the town, and here we lay and watched the bursting of the rebel shells, which occasionally exploded over our heads, and the moving columns of the army as they kept continuously crossing over; we all felt shaky about coming events and there was very little hilarity. Our new regiment, the Twenty-seventh Connecticut, had its equanimity sadly disturbed by a shell bursting in its ranks killing several of its men, which almost paralyzed them. The strangest thing is that the enemy does not shell the place thoroughly, now that it is packed full of men; we expected them to do so every minute, but were luckily disappointed.
The arrangement of troops to-night is as follows: Franklin on the left, our corps next on the right, then the Ninth and Sixth, and on the extreme right the First. It became foggy again about sunset, when we posted a very heavy picket line entirely around the town, just on the outskirts, with strong reserves, and made every preparation for a night attack. All the troops across lay in the streets, getting such rest as they could. We spent the night on the piazza of the old house, and were anything but comfortable.
The heights, in rear of the town, are bristling with guns and rifle pits, and entrenchments cover the entire face of the whole range. Why we should be compelled to charge at the very strongest point in the enemy’s position is an enigma that no one can solve; one thing alone is certain, that by tomorrow at this time many of our old comrades will have fought their last fight, whatever may be the result.
