July 5th, 1863.
We have moved about one and one-half miles today. No doubt our northern friends think they have seen dusty roads, but if they could have seen us yesterday or today, they would have thought the dustiest time they ever saw was clean and airy in comparison. The road, and two or three rods on either side, was beaten into the finest powder, and the feet of men and horses caused it to rise in sooty clouds, which enveloped us in their stifling, smothering folds. There was no breeze to carry it away —no possibility of avoiding it. When we halted at night every man of us was a “free soiler,” and carried enough dirt on his person to make a “garden spot.” Thanks to a kind providence, water is plenty at this place, and we soon washed and forgot our miseries.
One of the boys just killed a huge rattlesnake a few feet from where I am writing.
