September 8th, 1864.
Early next morning we resumed our march, and continued it until within a half mile of the place we vacated yesterday with so little ceremony. Here we set to work as though it had all been “part of the original plan,” and tonight have our hospital in good working order. This time there is no style. Judging by contraries, we will remain here for some time.
We did not leave the old ground a minute too soon. That very day the Rebels, in trying to shell the railroad, shelled our old camp. A half mile beyond was General Meade’s headquarters. They made it so hot he was compelled to get out in a hurry.
The Chicago convention has met and done exactly what everyone here expected it to do—nominated McClellan for the Presidency. My feelings for him are mixed—pity and contempt—pity that the once mighty McCIellan should fall so low; contempt that he allow ambition to ruin him. Henceforth “Little Mac” is powerless. Whether he accept or reject, there is no more magic in his name. Poor old dog Tray, your experience was identical with that of McCIellan. On the other hand, “Old Abe’s” prospects are brightening. Sherman is successful in “stumping” Georgia. His “speech” at Atlanta is working wonders here. Even Rebels are affected by it, and many have already “come over and joined our side.”
Some of our men are disposed to speak bitterly of the manner in which “volunteers are raised” in the North. I consider it magnanimous, in those patriotic men who are exposed to the draft, to allow the wives and widows of soldiers to contribute their mite toward buying substitutes. And there is some compensation in this. We want men who will fight. Most foreigners will do that; so will negroes. Copperheads’ will not; at least on our side. This money, with that wrung from the wives and widows of soldiers, will buy foreigners and negroes; and so we get the men.
