Monday, April 4th.
The storm still continues, and though the men make spasmodic efforts to render themselves more comfortable by ditching about their little tents, it is about as much as human nature will bear. Lieut. Gleason, who is not very strong at best, being a victim of rheumatism, is nearly drowned in his blankets, and looks very much as if he’d “like to see his mother,” while Lieut. Edmonston and I divide our time between our “bunk” in about two inches of water, and the Colonel’s wall tent in about the same depth of mud.
