Chattanooga, Tuesday, March 7. A gray, cheerless day, and my feelings were very much the same. Somehow or other a feeling of sadness and seriousness settled upon me, that in spite of all my efforts I could not shake. I am very severely troubled with such, and feel as though I ought not to, but I suppose the great cause is the non-arrival of mail, none having come in since Friday.
Bridges swept off north of Stevenson by the flood which is making sad work here also. The Tennessee has risen above its high and rocky banks, and throws its watery arm clear around Chattanooga, leaving us on an island. Inhabitants on the banks have to flee to the hills for safety. Where a week ago we could see four extensive saw mills erected and used by the government, throwing out thousands of feet of lumber and shingles per day, is now one watery waste, a turbid torrent rolling with relentless fury to form with the mighty Father of Waters. Work is plenty in camp. Policed ground for stables this afternoon, etc.
