PART VII.

RE-ENLISTMENT AND RETURN TO FRONTIERS, 1860.

It is not my intention to describe in detail my experiences as a civilian during the period between my first and second enlistments, but to restrict this story to my army career. I will only state here that my lack of knowledge of civil life made it hard for me to obtain any remunerative or permanent employment. I made all kinds of efforts, answering advertisements by letter or in person; in the latter case often finding a crowd of applicants ahead of me, most of whom had some experience in the kind of work offered. I often walked the streets looking for work and felt heartsick and discouraged at my failure to find employment. My little stock of money diminished day by day although I practiced the strictest economy, spending a few pennies for a mid-day meal when I was tramping about the city. After a time, during the summer, I found occasional employment; but it was not until fall that I secured a steady job where, however, the hours were long, the pay small and the work uncongenial.

About the middle of March, 1860, I was visited by two discharged soldiers from my company who had also come to New York, their former home, in search of employment, but without success. They had made up their minds to re-enlist and asked me to join them. I considered the matter carefully, and seeing no prospects for advancement, finding myself poorer financially than if I had remained in the service, and having a real fondness for a soldier's life, I decided to give up my employment and try my fortune once more in the military service.

On the twenty-fourth day of March, 1860, my two comrades and I re-enlisted to serve for five years in the United States Army. The recruiting office was in Chatham Street (now called Park Row), New York city. First Lieutenant Thomas W. Sweeney of my old company was the recruiting officer. He remembered us, seemed glad to have us return to the service and promised to see to it that we would be restored to our former regiment and company. It was just one year, lacking a week, since I had been discharged at Fort Randall, Nebraska Territory. My age at my re-enlistment was nineteen years, less three months.

We passed the medical examination, were sworn into the service by a notary, and on the same day were sent to Governor's Island, New York harbor. As I was no longer a musician I was assigned to quarters in the upper casemates of Castle Williams, along with a number of raw recruits. I found no changes or improvements on the island since I had left it more than five years before; it seemed the same as I have already described it, only the officers had all been changed. Major T. H. Holmes of the Eighth Infantry was in command.

In a few days I drew my kit and clothing at the quartermaster's stores and had to commence drilling along with other recruits who were being instructed by the drill-sergeants in their facings, marching, etc. The officer in command of the drilling squads soon discovered that I was well versed in all that was to be taught the recruits and detailed me to take a few of the stupidest of the lot to one side and try to instruct them. I disliked drilling this awkward squad, as it was very trying to my patience. They did not seem to know the left foot from the right; and when ordered to keep their heads up, out would go their stomachs. When it came to an "about face," some of them fell over themselves.

One afternoon a comrade and myself were detailed for fatigue duty to dig a grave for a soldier who had died in the hospital. We were supplied with pick and shovel and conducted to the island graveyard by a sergeant who marked out the location and the dimensions of the grave and then left, after admonishing us to be sure to have the job finished before two o'clock in the afternoon, when the funeral was to take place. Neither my comrade nor I had ever handled a pick or shovel before and we found the work hard. It was a warm day in April. We soon grew tired and felt very hot and dry. Opportunely the sutler's store was close by and beer by the glass was sold there. We found it necessary to refresh ourselves several times during the forenoon and to take a good long rest at noon-time. At two o'clock we were still digging when we heard the drums and fifes playing the dead-march and saw the funeral approaching from the hospital close by. The procession entered the graveyard and lined up at the grave; the corpse was ready, but we were not, for we had dug a hole only about four feet deep. After a scolding we were ordered to quit--much to our satisfaction. A couple of strong and husky Irishmen soon dug the hole to the required depth of six feet and the ceremonies were completed.

After a few weeks I was transferred from the castle to the garrison, where both the quarters and food were better. As I understood all the necessary drill, a rifle and accoutrements were issued to me and I had to take my turn at guard duty twice a week. I well remember that, the first time I was a sentinel on post, I was stationed on the shore facing Brooklyn, in front of some store houses, where I paced for two hours at a time and then was relieved and had four hours off before going on post again. In the day-time I could interest myself in watching the movements of steamboats and small craft on the river, but at night it was lonesome and the time on post seemed much longer. We had a little rest at night, during the four hours off, when we lay down on a hard wooden platform in the guard-house which was built for that purpose. We had to keep all our clothing and accoutrements on, and were generally disturbed after midnight by sentinel number one in front of the guard-house calling out, "Turn out the guard for the officer of the day" when we hurried out, formed ranks and were inspected by the officer of the day, who usually made the rounds of all the sentinels on the different posts at that hour.

There was on the island at that time a sergeant with a Polish name who had the immediate charge of the raw recruits. He was a martinet, a tyrannical bully in his treatment of the poor and ignorant recruits, who feared and hated him, but he was artful enough to keep aloof from the old soldiers who understood their rights and privileges. He seemed to be the most detested non-commissioned officer in the army.

I was impatient to rejoin my regiment on the frontier and to get away from Governor's Island, where my former experience was not a happy one; but it was not until early in June that a detachment of recruits for the Ninth Infantry, then serving in Oregon, was ready to depart. With this detachment of one hundred and fifty, another of fifty, destined for the Second United States Infantry, stationed in Dakota Territory, was to travel a part of the way. I secured a pass to be absent for forty-eight hours and went to the city to bid farewell to my mother and friends. One morning a few days later we formed on the parade ground, fully equipped with knapsack, haversack, tin cup, tin plate, knife, fork and spoon, a canteen and three days' rations of boiled salt pork and hard bread stowed in our haversacks; but without arms. We were escorted to the wharf by the post band, playing the usual airs, and embarked on a steamboat for the Erie Railroad depot in Jersey City.

Upon our arrival at the railroad depot we found a special train waiting to take us out West. The soldiers traveled in emigrant cars with bare wooden seats, very uncomfortable to ride in and very fatiguing, as we could sleep but little in our cramped positions. My experience on this journey was similar to that of my first trip West five years before. We lived on our rations with a quart-cupful of hot coffee with milk twice a day at some of the stations.

Upon arriving at Chicago the fifty recruits for the Second United States Infantry, of whom I was one, changed cars for St. Louis, Missouri, while the larger party kept on West as far as the railroad went and then had a long march across the plains to Oregon. From St. Louis we went South a few miles by cars to Jefferson Barracks, on the west bank of the Mississippi River, where we arrived about the middle of June. There were few soldiers at the barracks at that time, about a dozen reenlisted men awaiting an opportunity to rejoin their regiments, like myself, and a few score recruits in addition to our detachment. The barracks was pleasantly situated on high ground overlooking the river and was quite extensive. The country round about was sparsely settled, with large stretches of still uncultivated land and woods. A good road led to the village of Carondelet about half-way to St. Louis. Midway between the barracks and the village was a tavern called "The Stone House," which was much frequented by the soldiers.

I was appointed lance-corporal and helped to drill the recruits. I was also corporal of the guard about once a week and, as such, posted and relieved the sentinels. This gave me plenty of spare time for roving about the country, and for fishing and swimming in the Mississippi River. I was exceedingly fond of swimming and for nearly three months, except when on guard, I had a swim immediately after the reveille roll-call before breakfast, rain or shine. The weather was very hot that summer and I went into the water generally twice more during the day and always had a short swim in the evening after sundown to fasten a fish-line to a snag in the river about fifty yards from the shore, where I often found a catfish when I examined the line in the morning. It was pleasant to sit in the cool shade on the river-bank and see some of the famous Mississippi river steam-boats racing by, for at that time there were still many boats plying the river and the levee at St. Louis was crowded with them. Several times I secured a pass for a twenty-four hours' visit to St. Louis, and walked six or seven miles to Carondelet a few times without a pass.

Farm produce was very cheap; we improved our rations at very little expense and lived fairly well during the summer.

Early in September about sixty-five of the recruits destined for the Second United States Infantry, myself among the number, received orders to proceed to St. Louis and there to embark on a steamboat for St. Paul, Minnesota. We boarded the cars of the Iron Mountain Railroad at the barracks station and rode to St. Louis. It was a long distance from the railroad depot to the steamboat, which was near the north end of the levee; the day was hot and I staggered along under my heavily loaded knapsack and was ready to drop when we reached the steamer. My excessive swimming had weakened me to an extent that I was not aware of.

The steamer was a regular passenger and freight boat of the usual type; there were no bunks nor any kind of accommodations for us and we had to stay on the lower deck with the freight, spreading out blankets and sleeping any place we could find room. This proved to be a great hardship for me, for on the second day of our journey I became ill with a violent attack of what we called dumb-ague, which lasted until we reached St. Paul. It seemed that every time I traveled on the Missouri or the Mississippi rivers I was to have a fever of some sort. Dr. Andrew K. Smith, our surgeon, dosed me so liberally with quinine that I was in a stupor, so that my memory is almost a blank regarding this trip up the river. I could not eat the rations, but, fortunately, had some money and could bribe the cabin cooks to give me nourishing soup and a few delicacies, for which I was grateful. When we landed at St. Paul I felt better and was able to march to a camp prepared for us a few miles from the city, where Sibley tents had been put up and a train of about twenty army wagons with their six-mule teams were ready to load up with commissary and quartermaster's stores for Fort Abercrombie, Dakota Territory, which was our destination.

In a few days we started on our long march, passing through Minneapolis, and then in a northwesterly direction through a sparsely settled country to the town of St. Cloud, on the Mississippi, which dwindled to a small river at that point. Captain Deluzier Davidson, together with a lieutenant and a surgeon, were the officers of our detachment. I was still weak, but improved rapidly under the influence of the healthy atmosphere and the out-of-door life. I could not make a full day's march, however, although we carried no knapsacks; sometimes I rode the doctor's horse when he wanted to walk, or rode in one of the wagons when I was tired out. We did not attempt hard marches, but started at sunrise and generally encamped in the early afternoon, for Captain Davidson loved his ease and comfort, and there was no necessity to rush us along. At St. Cloud we rested for a day and washed our clothing in the river.

A day's march after we left St. Cloud all signs of settlements disappeared and we saw no more until we came to the town of Alexandria, a cluster of houses on a lake, about half-way between St. Paul and Fort Abercrombie. We were now in a country full of lakes, large and small, some of them were beautiful--the water clear and teeming with fish. When we arrived at the Otter Tail Lake, which was larger than any we had seen, we rested for another day and were amazed at the countless numbers of pelicans that we saw. These birds, when not fishing, rested on the islands in the lake, completely covering them, and from a distance it seemed as though they were covered with snow. We made a sort of seine out of feed bags, sewed together end to end, about twenty-five feet in length, and fastened to a stick at each end. Two men would wade into the lake for a short distance, extend this seine and drag it towards the shore, bringing with them many fish that struggled and wriggled when they got into shallow water, where we picked out with our hands such of them as we fancied.

Although we were in the country of the Chippawa Indian, we saw none of them until we reached Breckenridge, an old trading-post, where we met a few of the savages. Breckenridge was an easy day's march from Fort Abercrombie. We had just finished establishing our camp there for the night when several wagons and a small escort of soldiers arrived and halted for a while. They were from the fort on their way to St. Paul, and with them was Captain William M. Gardner of my company, going home on a six-months' furlough, accompanied by his wife and negro servants. They rode in a spring wagon (about the size of an ambulance) drawn by two horses. The captain was somewhat surprised to find me back in the army again. He talked with me for a long while and mentioned that he would make me a non-commissioned officer as soon as there was a vacancy in the company. He advised me to study with a view to being admitted to the military academy at West Point, and promised to use his influence, along with that of some other officers, to obtain for me an "appointment at large" from the President when I could qualify for admission. Much to my regret, I never saw Captain Gardner again. He resigned his commission before his furlough expired (while at his home in Georgia) and joined the Confederate Army.

The next day we arrived at Fort Abercrombie. The fort was situated on the west bank of the Red River of the North, which here marked the dividing line between Dakota and Minnesota Territories. This river flows north and empties into Lake Winnipeg in the British possessions, while the Mississippi, but little more than a hundred miles to the east, flows south. The Red river was but a small stream, navigable for canoes only. The most interesting thing about it and the Wild Rice river, a tributary a few miles away, were the dams built by beavers, which were plentiful on both rivers. Muskrats were also abundant.

The place was a fort in name only; it was in a bend of the river, whose course was marked by a fringe of woods in places, while all else was a bleak, level prairie as far as the eye could see. Two companies of my regiment had arrived here from Fort Randall in the spring and had built the customary log huts, which they were now occupying, in the woods on the low bottom-land of the river. Two other companies made the long march from Fort Laramie, via Fort Randall, and had arrived here in midsummer. These companies were engaged in building permanent quarters of hewn logs, with board floors and shingled roofs, on the plateau which formed the edge of the prairie. The soldiers' quarters consisted of one large room to house an entire company with a wing for the kitchen and mess-room. These buildings had not yet been completed upon our arrival and the two companies were in camp in Sibley tents. It was the end of September, the nights were getting cold and we had an occasional white frost in the morning; we were a few degrees further north than at Fort Pierre and on a higher elevation.

Our detachment of recruits was apportioned to the different companies and I rejoined Company D, in which I had served during my first enlistment. I missed a number of my old comrades--they had been discharged and had scattered throughout the West--but most of the former non-commissioned officers had re-enlisted. The first, or orderly sergeant, as he was also called, had me appointed as company clerk, which was an easy job and excused me from guard duty and from work upon the new quarters. This lasted for about two months, when we had a dispute and I was ordered back to do duty the same as any other private.

Fort Abercrombie was a dreary, lonesome place. The Chippawa Indians seldom came there and only in small parties and for a short stay. Their villages were much farther north--as far as Pembina, near the British lines.

A paymaster arrived at the post shortly after we did, accompanied by Major Irving McDowell, who was an assistant inspector general. He was a fine looking and apparently genial officer. He made a thorough inspection of the post and the soldiers. I little thought then that I would next see him in Washington after the battle of Bull Run, a defeated general. The commander of the post was Major Hannibal Day of the Second Infantry, a dignified old gentleman with long white hair and beard and a cold austere look in his eyes. The company commanders were Captains Christopher S. Lovell and Deluzier Davidson; a first lieutenant was in command of the third company, and my own was commanded by Second Lieutenant Wm. H. Jordan of the Ninth Infantry, who was temporarily attached to my regiment, our captain being absent on furlough and the first lieutenant on recruiting service in New York city. A few other second lieutenants and the surgeon made up the complement of officers at this time.

In October we began to have frosts and some snow; the Sibley tents were cold and uncomfortable, as no sheet-iron stoves had been provided and when we attempted to build fires in them the smoke drove us out. This led to various contrivances to warm our tents. In my own we dug a deep pit on one side and a covered trench with two lateral branches extending from it under the dirt floor, with openings outside of the tent for the smoke to escape from the fire which was built in the pit. This system of heating kept the tent comfortably warm except when the wind was contrary.

A great snow-storm and blizzard struck us in November and caused much suffering. Fortunately our quarters were completed about the end of the month; we moved in and enjoyed the comfort of sleeping in bunks on bedsacks filled with dried leaves, and warming ourselves at the two stoves with which our quarters were provided, although the large room except directly around the stoves was freezing cold. In January and February the thermometer sometimes fell to more than forty degrees below zero. We had a number of frost-bite cases in our little log-house hospital--some of them very severe--before our unsympathetic post commander issued an order to relieve all sentinels except Post No. 1, in front of the guard-house, who, with the temperature twenty degrees minus zero, was to be relieved every thirty minutes.

I had to take my tour of guard duty about once a week and was on post for two hours at a time with four hours off. I was warmly clothed, but when the temperature was down to thirty or lower I was chilled to the bone in less than an hour. In the night I often leaned my gun against a snowbank and beat my hands against my shoulders vigorously and ran to and fro the extent of my beat to keep my feet from freezing. On my hands I wore a pair of heavy woolen gloves and over them mittens made of buffalo skin with the hair on the inside, yet my fingers became so numb with the cold that, if I had had occasion to fire off my gun, I could not have reloaded it. From a board fence close to my post the intense cold forced out nails, which whirred through the air with a whizzing sound.

Wolves were plentiful; they came howling around our kitchens at night and close to the sentinels--less than a hundred feet away sometimes, when I shouted and rushed at them with my bayonet to scare them away. When a horse or a mule died, he was dragged out on the prairie a short distance and there devoured by the wolves. Traps were set in the snow about the carcass and many wolves were caught, while the others picked the bones clean.

I was frequently excused from the severe guard duty by being selected as commanding officer's orderly. This was a reward for the soldier whose clothing, arms and equipment the adjutant considered the cleanest and neatest. A speck of rust or a small spot on the clothing often put a man out of the race. There was great rivalry for this selection among the soldiers, for the orderly had an easy time. He could sit in a warm room in the commanding officer's quarters, carry a few messages during the day and sleep in his own bunk all night.

During the long, dreary winter we kept within doors, when not on duty, for the inclemency of the weather permitted but little out-of-door exercise. In compliance with Captain Gardner's advice, I borrowed text-books from Lieutenant Jordan, who was but lately from West Point, also from some other officers, and studied them all through the winter during my spare time. Some soldiers read papers and magazines, but the favorite pastime was playing checkers and cards; the games were euchre, seven-up, forty-five and poker, at which the stakes were dried beans instead of money.

An enterprising citizen established an express service between St. Paul and Fort Abercrombie with way-stations for the changing of drivers and horses. This gave us a mail service once a week, when the weather permitted, and kept us in touch with the world. The expressman took orders from us for any articles we wished from St. Paul and brought up the packages, as well as goods for the sutler.

There was a Scotchman in my company, whom we called Sandy, who was an excellent cook and a born caterer. During the winter he proposed to get up a dinner to be followed by dancing in the company's mess-room. Permission was obtained for "Sandy's ball," as we called it; most of the company subscribed, as well as some soldiers from the other companies. Sandy shrewdly collected the cash and gave no credit, then he sent to St. Paul for stone china dishes, for we had only tin cups and plates in our mess-room. He ordered hams, tongues, sardines, pickles, preserves, lemons, etc., not forgetting a few dozen bottles of American champagne, which had been carefully packed with sawdust into barrels both for safety and concealment. These goods arrived in due time and Sandy was a busy man, cooking hams and venison and baking pies and cakes. We helped him put up a few decorations and a lot of candles around the walls.

All was ready when the eventful evening arrived. The dinner was to be at eight o'clock, followed by dancing until midnight, with two fiddlers and a flute player to furnish the music. A half dozen soldiers' wives were the only ladies present; but we had as many more of the younger men dressed up in borrowed female clothes. The dinner was voted a great success and we lauded Sandy. We had bottled ale from the sutler's and topped off with whiskey punch, which continued to be served throughout the evening. Then the tables and benches were moved into a corner, the dishes piled on them, and the dancing commenced.

Everything went well for a while and we had lots of fun, until trouble started between the fiddlers. One of them, Mike Burns, had partaken of too much punch and wanted to play an Irish jig, while his German partner held out for a waltz. This enraged Mike so that he exclaimed, "Oi despises no nation, but damn the Dutch!" and smashed his fiddle over his partner's head. The combatants were separated, Mike was put out, order restored and the dancing resumed. While the dance went on Sandy had been busy in the kitchen selling Ohio champagne to the soldiers at steep prices. This, together with liberal quantities of whiskey punch, began to show its effects and the fun became fast and furious, until near midnight a fight started in one end of the room and in a moment a dozen or more of the soldiers were in the midst of it. Bottles and dishes were thrown about the room; the women screamed and rushed for the door; Sandy was up on a table waving his arms and shouting, "Quit yer fechting! dinna be breaking me dishes, I'm a puir mon," when the table upset and he went down to the floor among his broken dishes. The officer of the day and a few files of the guard, together with the corporal, now made their appearance and quelled the disturbance. All those who showed marks of having been fighting or were drunk were marched off to the guard-house and all others ordered to their quarters.

Sandy's ball had a sad sequel for him. He was a canny Scot and took good care of his bawbees (pence), saving much of his pay for some years, and it was assumed that he had made money out of the ball. A few weeks later, during midwinter, Sandy was missing for nearly a week and when he was at last brought back to the post in the express sleigh he had to be put into the hospital with his feet so badly frozen that all of his toes on both feet had to be amputated. He remained in the hospital until spring, when he was able to go about on crutches. He was then dishonorably discharged, forfeiting his pay due and all allowances. In the woods close to the post we built a shack for him to live in, also a stable, for he bought some cows and had them sent up from the settlements. There he made his living by selling milk and butter to the soldiers and ice cream, at which he was an adept. By the time we left the post he had discarded his crutches and was able to hobble about on his stumps.

Newspapers kept us informed of what transpired in the southern states after Lincoln's election to the presidency in November; how the violent threats of the south culminated in the secession of South Carolina from the Union on December twentieth, 1860, soon to be followed by other southern states. We read how Major Anderson transferred his small force from Fort Moultry to Sumpter, and about the firing on the steamer "Star of the West" with reinforcements for Fort Sumpter. We also heard that the Secretary of War, John B. Floyd, was accused of robbing the Indian Trust Funds and of depleting the Northern arsenals of arms and ammunition and of sending them south while still in office; also how in February General Twiggs traitorously surrendered the Seventh United States Infantry and other troops serving in Texas to the Confederacy; and how the rank and file refused the inducements held out to them to join the Confederate army, but were paroled and later on exchanged and did valiant service in the Union army, while a large number of their officers joined the standard of the enemy. We discussed these events earnestly and were much stirred when we learned that Fort Sumpter had been bombarded on April twelfth and evacuated by Major Anderson. We then understood that this was the commencement of war.

Militia soldiers from Pennsylvania reached Washington a few days later and on the fifteenth of April the President called out seventy-five thousand volunteers to serve for three months. Another proclamation of the President, dated May third for an increase of the regular army by twenty-two thousand and of the navy by eighteen thousand, was read to us on dress parade. In the meantime hundreds of the officers of the regular army had resigned their commissions and nearly all joined the Confederacy, among them my captain and some other officers of my regiment. To the credit of the rank and file be it said that, with very few exceptions, they remained loyal to the Government in the hour of its need. We began to wonder whether we were likely to take any part in putting down the rebellion before it was over, or whether we were to remain here in the Indian country.

Spring had come. When the snow had melted and the prairie became dry, we began to drill from three to four hours each day except on Saturday afternoons and Sundays. We had company, battalion, skirmish and bayonet drills, as well as target practice, and in a few months we became very expert in all of them. I was fond of the free action in skirmish drill, but did not like drilling in close formation. I also liked the bayonet exercise, and at target practice few could show a better score.

When not on duty we spent much of our time at the river, fishing, and swimming after the water had become warm enough. A favorite diversion was to go up the river a few miles and build a small raft of sticks to hold our clothes, swimming and pushing the raft before us down the current which flowed through shady woods. A small party of Chippawa Indians and squaws appeared a few times during the early summer and danced for rations, which was the only thing that relieved the monotony at this post.

We read of small engagements that had taken place between the opposing forces in various parts of the country and that an army was being concentrated at Washington, where two companies of our regiment from Fort Snelling, Minnesota, had gone. We envied these companies; they had a chance to see something of the war, which would soon be over, as we imagined, while we fretted and chafed in this lonely, far-off place, seemingly forgotten by the Government. At last, about the middle of July, we received the joyful news that two companies of the Second Minnesota Volunteers were on the way from St. Paul to relieve us and that we were ordered to Washington. In a few days the two companies arrived, weary and footsore from their long march. Most of them were very young lads who, though strong and hearty, were unaccustomed to marching on the burning hot prairies in midsummer. They had arms and accoutrements, but as yet no uniforms. We gave them a hearty reception, fraternized with them and helped to make them comfortable in their camp until they could occupy our quarters.

We packed our dress uniforms, hats and surplus clothing into packing-cases from the quartermaster's department, which were received some time after our arrival in Washington. In a few days our wagon-train was made up, we put our knapsacks on board, and left Fort Abercrombie without any regrets, early on a forenoon, amidst mutual cheering and a salute of "Present arms!" from the battalion of volunteers. All of the officers' ladies, as they called themselves, and the soldiers' wives and children went with us, riding in ambulances and in the army wagons.

Our first day's march ended at Breckenridge; our second day's march was a much longer one--we pursued about the same route as in the previous fall when we came up from St. Paul, but did not have the short marches we had enjoyed with the easy-going Captain Davidson. We soon found out that Major Hannibal Day was forcing us along at a rate of from twenty-four to thirty miles a day, which was very severe in the scorching heat of a July sun on the prairies. A number of men gave out on these long marches and were picked up by the rear-guard and put into the wagons. To be sure, we were anxious to get to Washington before the war would be over, but we did not want to kill ourselves in trying to get there. The men cursed the Major for an old tyrant, not loud but very deep.

We had completed about one-half of our journey to St. Paul when we encountered the express wagon carrying the mail to Fort Abercrombie and from newspapers received learned of the disaster and rout of the Union Army at Bull Run. This sad news staggered us--we could scarcely believe it. The northern press, from which we derived our information and shaped our opinions, had boasted so much about the patriotism and valor of the militia, who so promptly responded to the President's first call for troops, that we had fondly believed a single real battle would be enough to give the Confederacy a terrible lesson and break up the rebellion. We were indignant at the conduct of some of the Union troops, as we then understood it, the news of Bull Run cast a deep gloom over our battalion and we realized that we were likely to arrive at Washington in ample time to see something of the war.

Major Day, upon whom we looked as a very unfeeling man, allowed us some unusual privileges on this march. At St. Cloud a brewery had been erected, and when we were within four days' march of the town one forenoon we met a two-horse wagon loaded with kegs of lager beer, packed in ice and carefully covered over to shield it from the fierce rays of the sun. There was a man on the wagon beside the driver who, we noticed, had some talk with the Major and then turned the wagon around and followed our column until we halted for a rest, when we learned that each man who desired to do so might purchase a quart cup of beer for ten cents (a non-commissioned officer saw to it that no one got more than a quart). A rush was made for the beer wagon and keg after keg was tapped. It tasted delicious and cheered us. The officers also drank it, sending their servants for it; indeed, old Major Day, himself, did not disdain it. The beer wagon met us every day thereafter, near noontime, all the way down to St. Paul, and when it appeared we halted for a longer rest at the next convenient place and ate our lunch.

The Union sentiment was strong in the few small settlements through which we passed. At St. Cloud, where we encamped about a mile from town and rested for a day, the citizens gave us a generous welcome. A lady named Jane G. C. Swisshelm, who edited a newspaper there called "The Visitor," assisted by a committee of citizens and accompanied by the St. Cloud band, drove out to our camp, bringing with them a fine lunch and kegs of beer, for which we were very grateful. We gave her and the citizens of St. Cloud three rousing cheers when they departed.

The last day's march but one brought us to Minneapolis, where we encamped for the night on some fields just outside of the town, too tired and worn out to care for anything but to lie down and rest. This had been the hardest day's march of all--Major Day had made us cover thirty-two miles. Many men dropped out along the dusty road, overcome by the heat and fatigue; some fell asleep in shady places and did not reach camp until midnight. I was one of only a third of my company that was able to keep in the ranks until we reached camp. As the race is not always to the swift, so marching is not always the forte of the biggest and strongest men in a company of soldiers.

Next morning we resumed our march somewhat later than was customary, passing through Minneapolis, which was but a small town then, on to St. Paul, about ten miles away. The road between the two places had only farms and a few clusters of houses scattered along it. Upon arriving at St. Paul we marched to the steamboat wharf with closed ranks and received much attention and cheering from the citizens. When our wagon-train arrived, we got our knapsacks and the four companies boarded a steamboat which was waiting for us; we stowed ourselves away wherever we could find room, except on the cabin deck, which was reserved for passengers. There was no railroad at St. Paul then. We were to go down the Mississippi as far as La Crosse, Wisconsin, and take the cars there.

We sailed in the early afternoon; the boat was crowded and the weather very hot. When night came on my bunkie and I, along with others, spread our blankets on the hurricane deck back of the smokestacks. We took off our shoes and blouses, used our knapsacks for pillows and the starry sky for a covering. Being very tired, we were soon in a deep sleep. During the night I was awakened by a terrific yell and saw that my bunkie was sitting up, clutching at his chest and roaring with pain. I was confused, and for a moment I imagined the boat was on fire, as I saw fiery sparks in the air. We soon discovered the cause of the trouble. A large red-hot cinder from the smokestack (the boat burned wood for fuel and had high-pressure engines) had lodged on his bare breast through his open shirt and burned him severely enough to raise a large blister. We moved our bed to a safer place and slept peacefully for the remainder of the hot night.

Early in the afternoon on the following day we disembarked at La Crosse, where we noticed a train made up of one passenger car and a lot of empty box cars which was apparently waiting for us. We were indignant and loudly expressed our determination not to enter these cars and travel like cattle. The officers who, no doubt, overheard us, must have been of the same opinion, for we were not ordered into the cars but stacked arms and waited about three hours until a number of cars with hard wooden seats came along to replace the others. We embarked and started for Chicago.

After a weary night we arrived in Chicago the next day, where a change of cars was made, much for the better, as we got cushioned seats this time. We remained there about two hours and during that time crowds of citizens surrounded us and served us with coffee, sandwiches and pies, and presented us with cigars and tobacco. At Chicago we lost two men by desertion--the only ones on the entire trip. We also lost Captain Davidson, who remained behind and later on resigned his commission. He was an elderly man, very corpulent and unable to stand the hardships of a campaign.

All through the loyal western states across which we traveled there had been an uprising for the Union. The people were enthusiastic and gave us a hearty welcome wherever we stopped. At a town in Indiana, where we arrived near midnight, the citizens must have been informed of our coming. The station platform was crowded with people and they had a band playing patriotic airs. A group of young ladies, all dressed in white and wearing red-white-and-blue sashes, sang "The Star Spangled Banner" for us. Since the news of defeat at Bull Run the people were ready to make any sacrifice; the Northern papers clamored for the formation of a new army and an immediate advance "on to Richmond." It must have been during the time of this national excitement and enthusiasm that Josh Billings wrote the memorable words, "The Union must and shall be preserved, if I sacrifice all my wife's relations."

On our arrival in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, in the forenoon, the depot was jammed with people. Provisions enough for a feast and baskets of fruit were brought into our cars; it seemed as though everyone in the crowd wished to do something for us. After leaving Harrisburg we received orders to load our rifles, for there were rumors of expected trouble in Baltimore while the troops were traversing the city from one depot to another, for at this time the trains did not pass through to the Washington depot and it was necessary to march a long distance through the streets of the city. We reached Baltimore about four in the afternoon, formed ranks in the street, fixed bayonets and marched by fours in close order with the venerable Major Hannibal Day leading us. We carried our knapsacks, haversacks and canteens; we were dusty and dirty and bronzed by the hot sun on our recent march across the prairies. There were four companies of us and we looked more seasoned and determined than the militia troops that had passed through Baltimore before. We marched silently, only words of command being heard. There were many people on the streets regarding us with close attention. Sometimes a ruffian yelled out, "Bull Run!" which provoked no reply from us. A large, red-headed woman leaning out of a third-story window shouted, "Three cheers for Jeff Davis!" but got very scant encouragement from the people in the street.

We reached the depot without having any trouble, but were kept waiting there a long time and it was quite dusk in the evening when we embarked for Washington, arriving at the national capitol late in the evening. In Washington we formed ranks and marched to the "Soldiers' Rest," a large shed-building north of the capitol and but a short distance from it, where newly arrived troops received food and rested for a short time before going to their camps or quarters. The place had a board floor on which we spread our blankets. We were glad to stretch ourselves for we were very tired and stiff after our ride of three days and nights in a cramped position on the narrow seats of the cars. I think I fell asleep as soon as I lay down, and no ordinary noise could have waked me up before morning.