On Saturday evening we crossed the line into Maryland, fording the Antietam creek, the bridge over which the rebs had burned; and Sunday we footed it back and forth over roads and across lots, bringing up at Cavetown.

‘Earthquakes, as usual,’ wrote Lady Sale, in her ‘Diary.’  ’Rain, as usual,’ wrote we.  And such rain!  They do a heavy business in rain in that region, and in thunder and lightning, too.  I have heard Western thunder storms described, but I doubt if they surpass such as are common beneath these mountains.  Four poor fellows of the 56th, who were sitting beneath a tree, were struck by lightning—­one of them killed.

On Monday we camped at Boonsboro’, and on Tuesday beside a part of Meade’s army.  When I saw all the wagons here, and what an immense job it is to move any considerable force, with all the delays that may come from broken wheels, lame horses, and bad roads, I could not but smile at the military critics at home, who show you how general this should have made a rapid movement so; or general that hurled a force upon that point, &c.

Here, near Boonsboro’, on Tuesday night, the 14th, news of the riot in New York reached us.  The near approach of the expiration of our time had already made much talk of home, and now anxiety was doubled.  Rumors flew through camp, and all ears and mouths were open, and before we settled for the night it came.  Orderlies carried directions through the ranks to have all ready and clean up pieces to go home.

In the morning our Battery friends came up to say good-by.  Seventy-first buttons were exchanged for their crossed-cannon badges, songs sung and cheers given ad lib.

Soon we all started, bound, we knew, for the cars at Frederick City.  The last march!  It was very warm, and the road across the mountains often steep, but there was little straggling.

Most incidents of soldier life grow tame, but to the last the spectacle of the column on march retained its impressiveness for me.

We passed through Frederick just at dusk—­ejaculating tenderly ‘Ah! ah!’ as fair damsels waved handkerchiefs at us—­and went out to the junction.  The cars were ready.  We had done the last march.  Twenty-five miles that day!  And I had gone through this month of walking without foot trouble, for which I am indebted to my ‘pontoons,’ i.e., Government shoes.  Take them large enough, and they are the only things to walk in.

Marching is the hardest thing I met with.  I have always been a regular and good walker.  But ordinary walking is no preparation for marching.  The weight of musket and accoutrements, the dust (rain and mud in our case), the inability to see before you, and the necessity of keeping up in place, are all wearing and nervously exhausting.