The story of
yesterday's fight is all bosh. There were no two hundred prisoners
taken—no fifteen killed—no fight—not a rebel seen! Munchausen must have been
the legitimate son of a camp, or rather, the camp must be the legitimate
progenitor of the whole race of Munchausen.
But it is surprising
how camp life enhances the capacities of some men. I left home in July a
dyspeptic. I came to Camp Griffin, in October, weighing one hundred and thirty-nine
pounds. I record here, as something worth my remembering, an extract of a
letter written to-day to a friend inquiring how camp life affected my health:
“ * * * I weigh now
one hundred and fifty pounds. I have almost recovered my appetite. With other
things in proportion, I now take three cups of coffee for breakfast, three cups
tea at dinner, two cups at tea, and eat five meals a day, or suffer from
hunger. My last meal is usually taken at 11 to 12 o'clock at night, and
consists of one or two chickens, or a can of oysters, with a pot of English
pickled cauliflower. With that I contrive to get through the night.
"Last night,
however, I was so unfortunate as to have no chickens. My can of oysters was
sour, and I had to put up with a single head of boiled cabbage, half a dozen
cold potatoes, and some cold boiled beef. I wonder what I shall do when we get
away from the neighborhood of Washington to where there is no market, no
oysters, no chickens, no cabbage, no cauliflower, 'no nothin'.' I shall be
compelled to settle back to dyspepsia, and have no appetite."
SOURCE: Alfred L.
Castleman, The Army of the Potomac. Behind the Scenes. A Diary of
Unwritten History; From the Organization of the Army, by General George B.
McClellan, to the close of the Campaign in Virginia about the First Day
January, 1863, p. 59
