Friday, July 1st [1864]. Up at daybreak with Johnny and Dr. McDonald and up the river by the City of Troy, leaving the Commander in charge of Lord to turn over the contents of her lower hold to the Elizabeth and then return to New York for another cargo of pickles and onions...

...and curried cabbage. Most sultry. Below Harrison’s Landing, where a force of cavalry raiders lately crossed, the air is black with innumerable turkey-buzzards; indeed, these foul birds are visible everywhere on the banks of the James River.

Pass the rebel Atlanta, now converted into a loyal iron-clad, lying off Fort Powhatan. She looks like an ugly customer. City Point at nine. The waters swarming with transports, hospital boats, tugs, gunboats, and light steamers and all manner of river craft.

Land in a scene of matchless dust, confusion (apparent at least), and activity. They are repairing the railroad. Wagon trains are moving every way. Gangs of contrabands following mounted leaders who carry remarkably long riding whips — (honı soit qui mal y pense);

...docks are being built, officers riding about, and the usual nebula of stragglers, disabled men, and army followers is all-pervading. Everyone desperately in earnest about something.

The shore is lined three deep, yes, six deep, with barges, and the like, steamers are screeching, corrals of mules braying — but I can do no justice to the sights and sounds of the place. All this is on or beside a strip of river shore.

Back of this is a bank covered with fine trees and shrubs that were green once, but are now ash-colored and gray. Among them are tents of the same neutral tint. To your right, on the bank, there is refreshing bit of warm color, the flag of Grant’s headquarters.

Looking still farther, you make out dimly through the yellow dust-saturated air the outline of a long series of pavilion hospitals, where 6,000 sick and wounded men (too sorely hurt or too ill to be on transportation) are stifling...

...as they breathe the sluggish, heavy current of dust that keeps pouring in upon them. High up against the blue sky stand great columns of coppery dust, hardly moving and shifting their vague outlines slowly, like thunderheads as a cloud blows up.