Camp Ewing, November 8. — A beautiful fall day. About six hundred and fifty for duty, about two hundred and twenty-five sick, present and absent. All sent off who are in hospital but four; nine hundred and twenty-nine men still in regiment.[1]
We are getting ready to leave. I send home all I can, preparatory for rapid movements with weak trains of transportation. Still we have thirty-nine waggons, thanks to Gardner.
Captain Woodward died Tuesday, our hardiest officer. Industrious, faithful soldier, he has made his company from the poorest to almost the best. A sad loss. We send his remains home. Our fourth death in camp.
[1] For some weeks after this date, nearly every entry in the Diary contained a report similar to the one in this paragraph.
