The fog grows denser and denser—the rain comes down; such dreary refusals and disappointments have filled the day. The cabin will not hold half the officers. Nothing is settled—all is dirt, disorder and confusion. Oh, what a wretched, moody, miserable day! A week of such days passes, but at last the fresh west wind blows keen and cold. A little tug comes out from among the piers, and seizing the great vessel, leads her towards the Narrows, and the regiment at last is moving to New Orleans. “I shall be glad,” says a young lieutenant, flushed with the thought of setting forth on his first campaign, “I shall be glad when we are out of sight of New York.” “You’ll be gladder when you come in sight of it again.” “Perhaps I shall,” he says, with a laugh; “but after all our working and waiting, it’s delightful to be off at last.” I stand on the deck watching the sinking city and the lessening shores, as many have done before me, while gliding down the beautiful bay, until they grow dim in the distance, and then turn away, to think of inspections, rations, fires, and sea-sickness. The first night has passed without incident or accident, extinguishing the excitement of our sailing and leaving us to wake up quietly for our first day at sea. Not “quietly,” for twenty drummer boys, without the faintest sign of sea-sickness, rattled out a reveille that frightened the rats from their holes, and brought the sleeping watch from the forecastle, and disturbed every sailor and sleeper in the ship. It left us wide awake, and ready for the routine and duties of the day. BREAKFAST!—Breakfast is no easy thing to get in a transport ship. All night long two gangs of cooks have been at work, and there are fears and whispers that with all their efforts, the breakfast will run short. Very aggravating is it to wait for breakfast in this cold sea air, with nothing else to think of, and your thoughts quickened (if you are among the last) by the fear that there is not enough to go round. A serious business, too, it is to deal it out, requiring more than an hour of hungry moments. The companies form in files, and on each side of the ship approach the caboose. A mug and plate are thrust through a hole. In a moment, filled with a junk of pork, three “hard-tack,” and a pint of pale coffee, they are thrust back. The hungry owner seizes them and hurries away to some quiet spot, where he can unclasp his knife and fork, and cool his coffee to his liking. The long files of the unfed, one by one, creep slowly up to the greasy dispensary. The first company of the occasion ironically congratulates the last, the last ironically condoles with the first. They take turn about. Company A is first at breakfast to-day; second at lunch; third at supper; to-morrow it will be fourth, and thus it will keep on until at length it reaches the agonizing state of being _last_!