June 6, 1864.
I will try and send you this to-day. Our postmaster never calls for letters, though we could send them if he would. I will try hereafter to send oftener, though you must not feel anxious about me. I will take the best care I can of myself (and do my whole duty). I yet think that to be connected with such a campaign as this is well worth risking one’s life for. It occasionally gets a little old, but so does everything in this life, and altogether I don’t know but that it wears as well as any of life’s pleasures. Do you remember when I was at home how little I knew about good eatables? Here it is a great advantage to me. For five weeks we have been living on “hard tack,” pickled pork and coffee, varied by not half a dozen meals of beef, not even beans or rice. Nearly every one grumbles, but I have as yet felt no loss of appetite, and hardly the desire for a change.
Nearly all the prisoners we capture say they are done fighting and shamefully say, many of them, that if exchanged and put back in the ranks they will shirk rather than fight. It would mortify me very much if I thought any of our men that they captured would talk so. It seems to me that the Confederacy is only held together by its officers exercising at least the power of a Czar, and that should we leave it to itself it would crumble. Well, I am calculating that this campaign will end about the 15th of July, in Atlanta. I cannot hope for a leave of absence again until my time is out, unless I resign, and if active campaigning continues, as some think it will, until the war is over, of course I will have no chance to do the latter. Cousin James is near me here, and I expect to see him soon.
Passed Charlie Maple on the road yesterday; also saw Clegget Birney. He is a splendid looking boy. They say the 7th Cavalry will soon be here; also the 8th Illinois. I will try to write you every week hereafter.
One mile South of Ackworth, June 16, 1864.1
We moved through town and arrived here this p.m. Ackworth is a nice little town. All the “ton” have moved south.
We will lay here two days, and then for Atlanta again. I was out of provisions all day yesterday, and when I got a supply last night filled up to suffocation, but feel splendidly to-day. They credit a prisoner with saying that Sherman will never go to hell, for he’ll flank the devil and make heaven in spite of all the guards. The army is in glorious spirits. I hope the next time to date from Atlanta, but can hardly hope that for three weeks yet.
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1 Dated wrong in book; should be June 6, 1864.
