Vicksburg, Sunday, Aug. 23. The warmest day of the season, I think. My shirt was wet with sweat while lying on my bunk. Very quiet and one could almost imagine the calm of a Sabbath day was spread around as of times past. Felt rather lonesome, mused away most of the day in a waking dream, thinking of home and by-gone days. Mail arrived—none for me. Wrote to T. L. All looking for the return of the furloughed men. They are six days behind.
An Artilleryman’s Diary–Jenkin Lloyd Jones
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