#18

 

Corinth, Miss.

Feb.      1863,

 

Dear Sister:

                        Your letter of the 2^nd reached me on the 12^th. You may rest assured that it was very welcome, as I had received no intelligence from home for nearly a month. I wrote a letter home about one week ago in no very pleasant mood; but I find that my non-receipt of letters is due to the irregularity of the mail, and is no fault of those at home.

 

            In the absence of anything especially noteworthy transpiring here at present I will try to give you as faithful a record as possible of the general routine of

 

A Day on the March.

            About half past four the sound of the bugle warns the sleeping soldier / that it is time for him to arouse himself and prepare for the march. Soon where but a short time before all was quiet, and all were stretched in slumber on the ground, except the sentinels on watch, everything is in motion. Brisk fires lighten up the darkness, and around them are seen busy forms preparing their morning meal of coffee and meat. At the first streakings of the early dawn, and sometimes even before, the bugle sounds the call "Fall in", and we take our places ready for the day's journey. But how is it to-day? Are we in the advance or rear? For these reasons. The advance is the first to camp at night; furthermore, they gain much in that they can march steadily whilst the rear is behind the train and is compelled to halt while those in advance are crossing any bad place that may happen to be in the road, and then after- / wards to move very rapidly until they again catch up. After moving forward some three or four miles a short halt is made for rest; then they again start forward. Generally halts are made at intervals of about the same distance during the day; a stop of about one hour being made for dinner. The dinner meal on the march is a frugal one. It consists of hard crackers and raw fat pork. You know that I was never particularly fond of the latter article even when cooked. But I find that I can relish a raw slice quite keenly now.

 

            As we pass the creeks along the road any one who wants water fills his canteen, and then rejoins the ranks. When we stop for rest in the morning, part seat themselves upon the ground or fences, and part remain standing; but when we have marched awhile, no sooner is the command "Halt" given, than down goes each one upon his back, resting upon his knapsack, many not even taking the trouble to go to the side of the road. / Let us suppose that it is afternoon, and that we have marched some 2 or 3 miles since our last halt. will they not halt soon, is our mental inquiry. This knapsack begins to weigh down quite heavily. An opportunity to ease those straps on the shoulder would be very grateful. Perhaps this opportunity comes soon, perhaps ere we stop it seems almost impossible to go farther.—But it is near night. The sun indicates that it is about time to go into camp. How far is it to the next water? is then the anxious inquiry of the weary soldier. Why does he ask this? Because nearness to water is an indispensable thing to camping for the night. To water then we must go be it far or near. Sometimes the scarcity of water causes us to march much farther than usual. From 15 to 17 miles is the distance we generally travel, but sometimes we go much farther. But let us suppose that we have filed out of the road into position for the night. No sooner is the order given "Rest", than we see those who perhaps a moment before you would have thought too tired to march a mile farther, double quicking across the field.* What means it? why they are after rails for their fire. Soon each man returns bringing his load, and where but a short time before stood a fence, not a vestige of one will remain. I have actually seen a high rail fence disappear faster than I could walk. The quantity of rails thus burned up is enormous. Wherever we go, we leave no rails where we camp for the night. Wo unto the farm on which we encamp. After eating our supper of coffee, crackers and meat we stretch ourselves to repose around our camp fires. The scene witnessed is often very picturesque. The long line of camp fires, lighting up the heavens, the dimly seen forms of the men as they move to and fro, and the hum of voices forms a scene well worth witnessing.

 

            But I must stop. To-morrow morning early we go out to Jacinto, about 16 miles from here, on a foraging expedition, and I must go and prepare my rations. We shall be gone but two days.

 

            Hoping again soon to hear from home

 

I remain

Your affectionate brother

George.

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