December 31st, 1775
A bitter frost. We have head-ache from double rations of rum and half-rations of beef. We hear a few scattered shots upon the water but none know what it signifies.
’Tis said that, should the rebels be bold enough to muster just once more upon the wharves, we shall launch an attack upon Norfolk and level it; the slave-driving rascals have received fair warning. Our commanders have days ago informed them of this determination.
Everyone knows this is the eve of assault: Those on watch say that they have seen great caravans of refugees fleeing from the invested town with carts piled high and wagons full of effects. The streets, say they, are full of bustle and flight. The shops close and there is an end to all commerce. Both sides, it seems, now ready themselves for the ultimatum to be touched off by new shew of rebel impertinence, and for the desolation to commence.
As I write this, the four Coromantees in our Company are gathered in a circle, chanting their prayers or praise-songs, telling tales of valor from their kingdoms, which ritual is conducted to prepare them for battle.
On the morrow, we all know, rebel and soldier alike, that the rebel shall muster with impudence; and we shall invade; and the battle shall be joined.
We are ready to play our parts.