Twelve thousand steadily-moving infantry under the luckless McCook, poured down the Franklin turnpike, miles away to the right; twelve thousand more streamed down the Murfreesboro pike on the left, with the banner of the over-weighted Crittenden, while grand old Thomas, he whose trumpets never sounded forth retreat, but always called to victory, moved steadfast as a glacier in the center, with as many more, a sure support and help to those on either hand.
The mighty war-wave rolling up the broad plateau of the Cumberland was fifteen miles wide now.

It would be less than a third of that when it gathered itself together for its mortal dash upon the rocks of rebellion at Murfreesboro.
It was Friday morning that the wave began rolling southward.

All day Friday, and Saturday, and Sunday, and Monday it rolled steadily onward, sweeping before it the enemy's pickets and outposts as dry sand by an incoming tide.

Monday evening the leading divisions stood upon the ridge where Rachel and Fortner had stood, and looked as they did upon the lights of Murfreesboro, two miles away.
"Two days from to-morrow is New Year's," said Kent Edwards.

"Dear Festival of Egg-Nogg! how sweet are thy memories.