[Original]
CHAPTER XI. SOUTH MOUNTAIN.
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HE summer of 1862 was hot and dry. Streams were parched, the grass was brown and burned. The army trailed through the dust, and lay down at night footsore, weary and sick. Often the only water they had to drink was supplied by “brackish” ponds, whose surface was covered with greenish slime. Fevers and malaria broke out among the regiments, and dissatisfaction was loud and outspoken. Now and then a brush would take place, or a skirmishing party would sally out, surprise a party of Confederates, bringing some of them into camp prisoners.
“Knapsacks and rations ready by seven in the morning!” Fred Greene said, one September afternoon as they were watching eagerly and impatiently for some move to be made. .
“Sure its not another of your jokes, corporal?”