Three Years in the Confederate Horse Artillery — George Michael Neese.

October 12 — We are still sojourning at General Sheridan’s headquarters, and under strict surveillance in the midst of an infantry camp. We are consigned to the limits of a little square patch out in an open field, without the least sign of shelter. So far our diet has been very simple. The quality of our rations is excellent, but the quantity is considerably below the danger line of dyspepsia. Uncle Sam, the dear generous old soul, is determined that we shall not suffer any pains or disagreeable uneasiness from indigestion or dyspepsia while we are under the kind and hospitable care of his faithful patriots. And our sleeping apartment is as airy as a mountain wind. We wrap our blankets around us and lie down to soothing slumber and pleasant dreams on the cold wet ground without the least shelter against storm or rain. General Sheridan burns a red light at his headquarters all night.