Her faithful mare shied, caught her hoof in a crack in the limestone, and fell with a broken leg.
So began that terrible Wednesday, December 31, 1862.
Bragg's plan of battle was very simple.

Rosencrans had stretched out a long thin wing through the cedars to the right of the pike.

At the pike it was very strong, but two miles away it degenerated into scattered regiments, unskilfully disposed.

Bragg threw against these three or four to one, with all the fury of the Southern soldier in the onset.

The line was crumbled, and before noon crushed back to the pike.
Rachel disengaged herself from her fallen steed, and leaning against a sapling, watched the awful collision.