"Disgraceful."

Wednesday, December 10, 1862, Guinea's Station, Virginia

Nearly everything has gone wrong. I was assured that I would be discharged from the hospital on Monday last. It is now two days later and although I have been discharged, I am scarcely closer to rejoining my regiment than I was when still in the hospital.

Two days ago, several folks from the Provost Marshal's department entered the hospital and spoke with the surgeon in charge. Shortly afterwards, there was a general call for all able-bodied men to prepare for discharge and departure from the hospital to rejoin the army in the field. I saw several who, being motivated by their sense of duty, struggled to rise from their cots and join the ranks. Others who, moments before the entrance of the marshals, were nearly dancing suddenly became lame when called upon to do their duty.

A steward brought me the uniform that I had arrived in. The stockings and braces were missing. I was holding up my trousers, counting how many holes I would have to patch when I felt a hand on my shoulder. When I turned my eyes were cast upon a young lady of tender years who presented me with a parcel wrapped in paper and tied with string. This package she gave me. She did not and I could not utter a single word. She turned on her heel and walked towards some other ladies.

Although it was not explained to me, I gathered that these ladies were from an aid society and their purpose was to distribute material needs to the soldiers in the hospital. In all the disruption that filled the hospital, I think no one noticed my opening of the parcel. Inside was a new uniform including stockings and braces. And a pair of drawers.

And now I sit in a railroad station, wearing my new uniform. I have sat here for some hours along with many others, waiting on a locomotive engine to come and replace the broken-down one that has stranded us here. It my own fault that I am here. Had I not gone to have my likeness taken in my new uniform, I could have boarded an earlier train. Now, thanks to my vanity, I twiddle this tintype with my fingers as I listen for the whistle of approaching relief. Jackson needs me and I am not there.

There was no explanation for the urgency of the marshals earlier. Obviously, something has happened or is happening that requires all of us who can to defend our country. And here I sit, twiddling. Disgraceful.