Scottsboro, Ala, March 24, 1864.
Two months and twenty-four days without changing camp; which is the longest time our tents have covered one piece of ground since we organized. We have marched, though, some 35 days during this time, and some such marching. Whew! I think I never suffered on a march as I did on the Sand Mountain in DeKalb county. I wore a thin blouse, and had no overcoat. I’d lie so close to the fire nights that the clothes on my back would scorch and my breath would freeze on my whiskers. We had nothing to keep the freezing dews off us, and it seemed to me that it went through my clothes and an inch of flesh before the dew-point would be blunted. One night about 2 o’clock I had a huge pine knot fire and was trying to warm some half frozen portions of my body, when Captain Smith came over from his bed, as blue as a conscript, to thaw out. He turned one side and then t’other to the blaze, time and again but without much progress; finally he shivered out, “By G—d, Captain, I could wish a tribe of cannibals no worse luck than to get me for breakfast. I’m frozen hard enough to break out half their teeth, and the frost would set the rest aching.” Next morning a lot of us were standing by a fire nearly all grumbling, when the major asked me how I passed the night. “Capitally, slept as sweetly as an infant, little chilly in fore part of night, but forgot it when sleep came.” They looked so pitifully, doubtfully envious, that I got me laugh enough to warm me clear through. Captain Smith, Soot and Lieutenant Ansley have been in with me playing old sledge all evening. A storm came up, blew half of my camp house down, and broke up the party. Have just got fixed up again. Those pine knot fires we had on the mountains, made us all look like blacksmiths. Day before yesterday a foot of snow fell. Last night only drifts on the north side of things were left and to-night you have to hunt for a flake. Two shots on the picket line back of our camp. Guess it’s some of the 26th or 48th recruits. Out of every dozen or twenty recruits, there’s sure to be one who will see men skulking around his picket post, and who will shoot a stump.
Six-thirty a.m. 25th.—Bless me, how it rained and blew last night. Do you remember the storm at Point Pleasant, Mo., April 1, 1862? Never a high wind that I do not think of it. Believe we had two killed, about a dozen disabled and 20 horses killed. No paymaster yet.