April 4 — Left camp this morning on a fifteen-day furlough, the first thing of the kind I have had since the war commenced. There is a charming euphony and sweet music in the words, “Going home,” such as those who never soldiered nor roamed ever yet have heard.
I took the train at Gordonsville. It was raining very hard then, and before the train reached the Blue Ridge the rain had changed to snow, and here at Staunton gentle spring is reveling under a mantle of snow four inches thick. When we were coming up the eastern side of the Blue Ridge it was snowing very fast, and the snow scene was beautiful and grand; every evergreen bush and shrub and the branches of the trees were gracefully bending and drooping under a burden of beautiful snow, and in a thousand places on the mountain side the shiny green leaves of mountain laurel peeped out from under the glittering crystal shroud that was spread and hung over the mountain’s rocky, irregular, and slopy breast.
The Central Railroad passes through the Blue Ridge in a tunnel seven-eighths of a mile in length; when the train shot suddenly into the little black hole to-day from the dazzling white outside it was like leaping from the brightness of midday and plunging into the blackness of midnight. The train arrived in Staunton this evening at six o’clock, and we furloughed men, of whom there are five, put up for lodging at the Virginia Hotel; we all slept in one room and our lodging cost us five dollars each. A meal here costs five dollars, and I will have to browse in order to satisfy the longings of the inner man or else I will not have enough Confed. to get me back to my command; five dollars for a nap and five dollars for a meal will soon, all too soon, clean up the contents of my pocketbook and ruin my credit.
Staunton, the county seat of Augusta County, is peculiarly situated in a kettle-like depression, environed nearly all around by abrupt and undulating hills in close proximity. The town contains some three or four thousand inhabitants, and is located ninety-two miles south of Winchester, and at the southern terminus of the Valley pike.
April 3 — We had preaching in camp to-day by the Rev. Mr. Zimmerman. Text, Hebrews ii: 1.
April 2 — Rained all last night, with a cold freezing wind blowing from the north; this morning it commenced snowing, and snowed until midday. We have had a great deal of rain and snow since we moved to this camp; the ground is well saturated with water, and our camp is in the same fix, with deep adhesive mud of the finest grade.
March 23 — It stopped snowing last night, and every speck of cloud drifted away from the azure dome this morning before sunrise. Our common Mother Earth, on whose bosom we slumbered, was calmly reposing this morning under a white crystal counterpane ten inches thick.
March 22 — Commenced snowing this forenoon, with a cold north wind sweeping over the bleak fields, which sends chilly feelings to the bones of soldiers without houses or shelter. It is still snowing very fast this evening.
March 21 — Renewed our march this morning and moved to within two miles of Gordonsville, and camped.
Gordonsville is a little railroad town situated in the southwestern edge of Orange County, and at the juncture of the Virginia Central and the Orange and Alexandria railroads. The country right around the little town is level, and some of the land seems to be of good quality; but on the east side of town the chincapin bushes are close by, which is not a very good indication of a deep or fertile soil.
March 20 — This morning we were ordered to Gordonsville, to camp there until the campaign opens. We packed up at ten o’clock and left our winter resort en route to Gordonsville. We passed through Charlottesville, crossed the Rivanna half mile east of town, and camped to-night ten miles from Gordonsville.
March 4 — Another alarm reached camp to-day, that the raiders were advancing on our camp. We moved out on the Charlottesville road and were ready for their approach, but like yesterday the report was false. I wonder how and where all the flying rumors and false reports originate; I would certainly like to find the nest where they are hatched, just to see what kind of egg or germ it takes to produce such fallacious reports and how they are developed.
March 3 — A flying report came to camp to-day that the raiders were again advancing on Charlottesville. We hitched up hurriedly on the strength of the report, and were ready with our guns to give them an old Virginia greeting, with shot and shell mixed in it. The report proved to be false, as there were no Yankees in sight or hearing, and we settled down again in the ashes of our old winter quarters.
March 1 — The raiders have all retreated toward the Rappahannock, and about the only thing that they accomplished for the benefit of the United States is that they burnt our winter quarters, with such a stupendous loss to the sunny South that I think the Southern Confederacy is ruined and that it might as well take down its shingle at once and retire from business.
We came back to our old camp to-day and found nothing but desolation and ashes where our winter quarters stood yesterday morning. Personally I lost nothing but the best Confederate jacket that I have had since I have been in service. The marauders took it out of my knapsack and burnt it; I found the buttons to-day in a little pile of ashes near my lonely house, which is one of the few that escaped the fiery ordeal of yesterday’s conflagration.
I suppose that the devout Yankee who burnt my Sunday jacket thought that he was immolating a precious and costly sacrifice on the altar of his country, and that it would prove to be an acceptable offering to Uncle Sam’s God, which of late years seems to be a demon of destruction.
