Jackson sat at a little table, on a cane-bottomed chair, and he wrote by the light of a single candle.
His clothing was all awry and he had tossed away the gold-braided cap.
His face was worn and drawn, but his eyes showed no signs of weariness.
The body might have been weak, but the spirit of Jackson was never stronger.
Harry knew that Jackson after victory wasted no time exulting, but was always preparing for the next battle.

The soldiers, both in his own division and elsewhere, were awakened by turns, and willing thousands strengthened the Southern position.

More and deeper trenches were constructed.

New abatis were built and the stone wall was strengthened yet further.

Formidable as the Southern line had been to-day, Burnside would find it more so on the morrow.
After midnight, Jackson, still in his gorgeous uniform and with boots and spurs on, too, lay down on his bed and slept about three hours.
Then he aroused himself, lighted his candle and wrote an hour longer.
Then he went to the bedside of the dying Gregg and sat a while with him, the staff remaining at a respectful distance.
When they rode back--they were mounted again--they passed along the battle front, and the sadness which was so apparent on Jackson's face affected them.