March 19th, 1865.
The pleasant weather of the past week has given way to wind and storm. This morning the sun rose bright and beautiful, as on preceding days, but before noon was nearly obscured by gathering clouds. A little after noon the rain began to fall; gently at first, and continued through the day, so warm and pleasant; but as the sun went down the wind veered to the southwest—all our worst storms come from that direction—gradually increasing in force, until now it is almost a hurricane. And the rain! It comes, now in great, pattering drops; now in solid sheets; an almost resistless flood. My little house rocks and quivers like a ship at sea. I have fastened a rubber blanket over the top to keep the rain from splashing through. With all the wind and rain, it still is warm, and my little house is dry and comfortable. But how about the pickets, without shelter, fire or exercise; anything to protect them from the pelting storm or deepening mud? It is now four months since the Ninth Corps took this position—four winter months—and the men, during all that time, have been on picket as often as every third day, besides doing their other duties; and yet, a more stalwart, healthy-looking lot of men I never saw.
During the past week more vigilance than ever has been exercised along our lines. The men are required to stack arms at dusk, and remain in readiness to fall in, with accoutrements on, until 9 o’clock. They then retire until 1 o’clock, when they again stack arms and watch until morning.
The long-talked-of demonstration on our left has not yet taken place. Correspondents will tell the people this storm has caused the delay. In my opinion, the storms are innocent in that regard. When the proper time comes, or his plans are fully matured, General Grant will strike.
