November 1. Camp Tompkins. — Cold, gusty, but sunshiny. The fine band of the Second Kentucky does discourse glorious music. A dapper little fellow with a cane, “a nice young man,” fit for Fourth Street in piping times of peace, walked by my tent just now. Not a fellow in camp with his army blue, tattered or not, who does not feel above him.
The enemy have just begun to fire on the ferry and on the teams and passers between here and Gauley Bridge. They have cannon and riflemen on the opposite side of New River. Went with Sweet scouting to ascertain exact position of enemy. Followed up rills and ravines, running imminent risk of breaking necks; discovered tolerable views of the enemy. The echoes of the cannon and bursting shells were grand in these defiles. Two of our men slightly wounded. The ferry stopped during daylight (but doing double duty at night), is all that was accomplished. Great waste of ammunition, great noise, excitement among soldiers. Vox præterea nihil. Got home at night, tired enough, in the rain.
