Friday, Jan. 2, 1863. We did march in about thirty minutes after I wrote that last line, and I have not had a minute’s time to write since. We went off on a reconnoissance, or “reek-o-nuisance,” as the boys call it. We went about fifteen or twenty miles up the river to Richard’s Ford and came back yesterday. We had a tough march—such a march always is, for we don’t wait for trains, and when we got into camp we were all tired, I assure you.
You were asking me if my present position entitled me to more privileges than a private—the privates seem to think it does. It entitles me to have my knapsack carried on a march, and—to go without my blankets if the trains don’t come up. It entitles me to a horse if I want it, but I don’t want it, so I am dubbed “dam phool” by said privates. But all in all, I guess I’d rather be chief bugler than private.
I saw Alf a few days ago. He was looking well, and this morning I had a good long chat with Mrs. A. She arrived last night. It was the first time I had spoken to a civilized woman in six months, and you may imagine my “phelinks.”
