After a sleepless, comfortless night, I am again astir, to find everything wringing wet. The wind blew fearfully all night, and the rain beat against my tent like strong hands clamorous for entrance.
Two souls have gone out with the raging of the storm—they went up through the surging of the elements, and their bodies will be buried in wet graves to day. I have been my round, and am quite hopeful for the recovery of those left.
I have scarcely been alone a moment to-day, and to-night will be a continuation of the fearful one preceding, but my house holds its own—although rocked like a shell by the stormy waves of Ocean. I shall keep my light burning.
The bugle-call roused me from a waking dream this morning, after another wretched night. I feel rheumatic in every joint of my body, and my constitution must be strong indeed to endure this saturating process with no injury.
I am tired of the clatter, and wish it would favor some other portion of the continent with its prank-playing, and take its exit from City Point. We are not likely to lose any of our sick to-day. The transport has gone for another load; they are clearing the way for the new instalment of bloody heroes, from the fresh battle-fields of this spring-time. With shuddering I remember it—in fancy I see the ghastly procession as they are brought in, pale, bloody, and gasping with pain.
