There was quite a drunk last night. One in our Company, and one below here disturbed my slumbers. Whiskey is a great bane in the army, and a fearful demoralizer in Camp. Nearly every day some case of drunkenness occurs. This morning part of the sixth corps left. A part left not long ago. Last week the 11th & 12th left, it is reported, for Chat[t]anooga. We are drawn up here in line of battle with a second line to support the first. The 6th Corps occupies the right, the 3rd, ours, comes next, the 5th next, and then the 1st protecting [illegible]. Pleasanton’s cavalry corps are in front, supported by the 2d corps. All these are fighting corps. This corps hopes Gen. Sickles will take command soon. Gen. French is an arrogant, and repulsive officer. He is a regular “brandy blossom” or a “two gallon whiskey keg.” He is bald-headed, and red-faced, smooth-shaven, with the exception of a heavy moustache. As he uncovered his head yesterday when he rode by;, I thought he looked very much like Gen. Butler’s pictures. As I write this, it is quite cool, though the sun is struggling through the small, numerous clouds, that spot the heavenly dome.
While drilling this afternoon the Bugle sounded “pack up, pack up.” Immediately all was alive. We packed up, struck tents and were moving in less than an hour. We moved north about half a mile, and pitched our tents in the woods near the turnpike. Tonight cooked my own coffee. Felt well tonight, whether because I had given part of my soft bread to a fellow soldier, or because we had got new quarters, or because I had the proud satisfaction of knowing that I can rely upon myself, I cannot say.