"I am sick, discontented, out of humor. Poor food, hard lodging—cold weather—fatigue—nasty clothes—nasty cooking—smoked out of my senses, vomit half my time—the Devil's in it. I can't endure it.
"Here comes a bowl of soup—full of burnt leaves and dirt.—Away with it, boys. I'll live like the chameleon upon air. 'Pooh-pooh,' says Patience. You talk like a fool.—See the poor soldier—with what cheerfulness he meets his foes and encounters hardships. If bare of foot he labors through mud and cold, with a song extolling war and Washington. If his food is bad he eats it with contentment and whistles it into digestion.—There comes a soldier—his bare feet are seen through his worn out shoes. His legs are nearly naked from his tattered remains of an old pair of stockings—his shirt hanging in strings,—his hair dishevelled—his face meagre—his whole appearance pictures a person forsaken and discouraged. He comes and cries with despair—I am sick. My feet are lame—my legs are sore—my body covered with tormenting itch—my clothes worn out—my constitution broken. I fail fast. I shall soon be no more. And all the reward I shall get will be—'Poor Will is dead.'"
On the 21st of December this entry appears:
"A general cry through the camp this evening: 'no meat—no meat.' The distant vales echo back—'no meat.' 'What have you for dinner, Boys?' 'Nothing but fire-cake and water, sir! At night. 'Gentlemen, supper is ready.' 'What is your supper, lads?' 'Fire-cake and water Sir.'"
Again on December 22d:
"Lay excessive cold and uncomfortable last night. My eyes started out of their orbits like a rabbit's eyes, occasioned by a great cold and smoke. Huts go slowly. Cold and smoke make us fret.—I don't know anything that vexes a man's soul more than hot smoke continually blowing into one's eyes, and when he attempts to avoid it, he is met by a cold and freezing wind."
On December 25th, Xmas, this entry:
"Still in tents. The sick suffer much in tents. We give them mutton and grog and capital medicine it is once in a while."
January 1st: