“In the enemy’s country, although all we meet are Union men.”—Diary of Rutherford B. Hayes

July 28. Sunday.–Busy from 4 A.M. packing baggage, striking tents, and preparing to move. Baggage enormous and extra; great delays; great stew. Our new Irish quartermaster– a failure so far. Got off about 11 A. M., in a great shower. I rode backwards and forwards; got wet; weather hot after the showers; face and nose, softened by the rain, begin to scorch; a peeling time in prospect. Still it was novel, scenery fine. Blackberries beyond all experience line the road; road good. Camped at night in a meadow by the road. Rain-storm soon followed. Many put up no tents; wearied with the day’s march, they threw themselves on the ground and slept through. I got wet through trying to get them sheltered. In the enemy’s country, although all we meet are Union men. Many fancied threatening dangers in all novel sights. A broken limb in a tree top was thought to be a spy looking down into the camp; fires were seen; men riding by were scouts of the enemy, etc., etc.