Chapter II

_The War Fever Again--Going to a Shooting Match--Over the Mountains to Enlist--A Question of Age--Sent to Camp Meigs--The Recruit and the Corporal--The Trooper's Outfit--A Cartload of Military Traps--Paraded for Inspection--An Officer who Had Been through the Mill._

RETURNED to Berlin very much discouraged. There had not been anything pleasant about our camp life in Troy--the food was poorly cooked, the camp discipline was on the go-as-you-please order at first, and sleeping on a hard bunk was not calculated to inspire patriotism in lads who had always enjoyed the luxury of a feather bed. Yet the thought that I was a Union soldier, and a Griswold cavalryman to boot, had acted as an offset to the hardships of camp life, and after my return home the “war fever” set in again. The relapse was more difficult to prescribe for than the first attack. The desire to reach the front was stimulated by the taunts of the wiseacres about the village who would bear down on me whenever I chanced to be in their presence, as follows:

“Nice soldier, you are!”

“How do the rebels look?”

“Sent for your father to come and get you, they say.”

“Did they offer you a commission as jigadier brindle?”

“When do you start again?”

Quite a number of the boys about the village and from the back hollows interviewed me now and then in respect of my army experience. I was a veteran in their estimation. After several conferences, a company of “minute-men” was organized. We started with three members--Irving Waterman, Giles Taylor and myself. I was elected captain, Waterman first lieutenant and Taylor second lieutenant. We could not get any of the other boys to join as privates. They all wanted to be officers, so we secured no recruits. It was decided that we would run away and enlist at the first opportunity. Taylor was considerable of a “boy” as compared with Waterman and myself, as he was married and a legal voter. Waterman was nearly two years my senior, but as I had “been to war” they insisted that I should take the lead and they would follow.

We finally fixed upon Thanksgiving Day in November, 1863, the time to start for Dixie. Waterman had scouted over around Williamstown, and he came back with the report that two Williams College students were raising a company of cavalry. Thanksgiving morning I informed my mother that I was going to a shooting match. It proved to be more of a shooting match than I expected. The minute-men met at a place that had been selected, and started for Dixie.

At the Mansion House, Williamstown, we introduced ourselves to Lieutenant Edward Payson Hopkins, son of a Williams College professor. The lieutenant was helping his cousin, Amos L. Hopkins, who had been commissioned lieutenant and who expected to be a captain, to raise a company.

“As soon as he secures his quota, I shall enlist for myself,” said the lieutenant, who added, that we could put our names down on his roll and he would go with us to North Adams, at which place we could take cars for Pittsfield, where Captain Hopkins's recruiting office was located. We rode to North Adams in a wagon owned by Professor Hopkins and which was pressed into service for the occasion by the professor's soldier son. The lieutenant handled the lines and the whip, he and I occupying the seat, and Taylor and Waterman sat on a board placed across the wagon behind.

At North Adams we were taken into an office where we were examined by the town war committee.

One of the committee was Quinn Robinson, a prominent citizen. I was called before the committee first, and having been through the mill before, I managed to satisfy the committee that I was qualified to wear a cavalry uniform and draw full rations. I remember that in canvassing the question of age--or rather what we should say on that subject--we had agreed to state that we were twenty-one. I was not fifteen until the next February. The examiners did not question my age.

“We won't say twenty-one years,” said Waterman, “and so we won't lie about it.”

After I had been under fire for some time I was told to step aside, and Waterman was brought before the examiners.

“He looks too young,” said Mr. Robinson to Lieutenant Hopkins.

“Well, question him, suggested the lieutenant.

“How old are you? inquired the committee man.

“Twenty-one, sir,” replied Waterman.

“When were you twenty-one?”

“Last week.”

“I think you're stretching it a little.”

“No, sir; I'm older than Allen, who has just been taken in.”

“I guess not; you may go out in the other room by the stove and think it over.”

Our married man Taylor was next called in.

“We can't take you,” said Robinson.

“What's matter?” exclaimed Giles.

“You're not old enough.”

“How old've I got to be?”

“Twenty-one, unless you get the consent of your parents.”

“Taylor's a married man,” I whispered to Lieutenant Hopkins.

“Don't tell that, or he'll be asked to get the consent of his wife,” said the lieutenant, also in a whisper.

The committee contended that Taylor would not fill the bill. Waterman was recalled, and Mr. Robinson said:

“Well, you've had time to think it over. Now how old are you?”

“Twenty-one, last week.”

“I can't hardly swallow that.”

“See here, Mr. Quinn” (I had not heard the committee man's other name then), I interrupted. “We three have come together to enlist. You have said that I can go. Taylor may be a trifle under age, but what of it? If you don't take the three of us none of us will go.”

There was more talk of the same kind, but finally the war committee decided to send us on to Pittsfield and let the recruiting authorities of that place settle the question of Taylor and Waterman's eligibility.

There was no trouble at Pittsfield, and we were forwarded to Boston in company with several other recruits. The rendezvous was at Camp Meigs in Readville, ten miles or so below the city. Arriving at the camp we were marched to the barracks of Company I, Third Battalion, First Massachusetts cavalry, to which company we had been assigned.

When we entered the barracks we were greeted with cries of “fresh fish,” etc., by the “old soldiers,” some of whom had reached camp only a few days before our arrival. We accepted the situation, and were ready as soon as we had drawn our uniforms to join in similar greetings to later arrivals. The barracks were one-story board buildings. They would shed rain, but the wind made itself at home inside the structures when there was a storm, so there was plenty of ventilation. The bunks were double-deckers, arranged for two soldiers in each berth.

“I'm not going to sleep in that apple bin without you give me a bed,” said Taylor to the corporal who pointed out our bunks.

“Young man, do you know who you're speaking to?” thundered the corporal.

“No; you may be the general or the colonel or nothing but a corporal--”

“'Nothing but a corporal!' I'll give you to understand that a corporal in the First Massachusetts cavalry is not to be insulted. You have no right to speak to me without permission. I'll put you in the guard house and prefer charges against you.”

“See here,” said Taylor. “Don't you fool with me. If you do I'll cuff you.”

“Mutiny in the barracks,” shouted a lance sergeant who heard Giles's threat to smite the corporal.

The first sergeant came out of a little room near the door, and charged down toward us with a saber in his hand.

“What's the trouble here?” he demanded.

“This recruit threatened to strike me,” replied the corporal.

“And he threatened to put me in the guard house for saying I wouldn't sleep in that box without a bed,” said Taylor.

“Did you ever hear the articles of war read?” asked the sergeant.

“No, sir.”

“Well, then, we'll let you go this time; but you've had a mighty narrow escape. Had you struck the corporal the penalty would have been death. Never talk back to an officer.”

“Golly! that was a close call,” whispered Taylor, after he had crawled into his bunk.

We each had a blanket issued to us for that night, but the next day straw ticks were filled, and added to our comfort. Waterman and I took the upper bunk, and Giles slept downstairs alone until he paired with Theodore C. Hom of Williamstown, another new-comer.

One of the most discouraging experiences that a recruit was called upon to face before he reached the front was the drawing of his outfit--receiving his uniform and equipments. I speak of cavalry recruits. If there ever was a time when I felt homesick and regretted that I had not enlisted in the infantry it was the morning of the second day after our arrival at Camp Meigs. I recall no one event of my army life that broke me up so completely as did this experience. I had drawn a uniform in the Griswold cavalry at Troy before my father appeared on the scene with a _habeas corpus_, but I had not been called on to take charge of a full set of cavalry equipments. If I had been perhaps the second attack of the war fever would not have come so soon.

A few minutes after breakfast the first sergeant of Company I came out from his room near the door and shouted:

“Attention!”

“Attention!” echoed the duty sergeants and corporals in the barracks.

“Recruits of Company I who have not received their uniforms fall in this way.”

A dozen “Johnny come Latelys,” including the Berlin trio, fell in as directed. The sergeant entered our names in a memorandum book. Then we were turned over to a corporal, who marched us to the quartermaster's office where we stood at attention for an hour or so while the requisition for our uniforms was going through the red-tape channels. Finally the door opened, and a dapper young sergeant with a pencil behind his ear informed the corporal that “all's ready.”

The names were called alphabetically, and I was the first of the squad to go inside to receive my outfit.

“Step here and sign these vouchers in duplicate,” said the sergeant.

I signed the papers. The sergeant threw the different articles of the uniform and equipments in a heap on the floor, asking questions and answering them himself after this fashion:

“What size jacket do you wear? No. 1. Here's a No. 4; it's too large, but you can get the tailor to alter it.

“Here's your overcoat; it's marked No. 3, but the contractors make mistakes; I've no doubt it's a No. 1.

“That forage cap's too large, but you can put paper in the lining.

“Never mind measuring the trousers; if they're too long you can have 'em cut off.

“The shirts and drawers will fit anybody; they're made that way.

“You wear No. 6 boots, but you'll get so much drill your feet'll swell so these No. 8's will be just the fit.

“This is your bed blanket; don't get it mixed with your horse blanket.

“I'll let you have my canteen and break in the new one; mine's been used a little and got jammed a bit, but that don't hurt it.

“This is your haversack; take my advice and always keep it full.

“This white piece of canvas is your shelter tent; it is warranted to shelter you from the rain if you pitch it inside a house that has a good roof on it.

“These stockings are rights and lefts.

“Here's your blouse. We're out of the small numbers, but it is to be worn on fatigue and at stables, so it's better to have plenty of room in your blouse.

“You will get white gloves at the sutler's store if you've got the money to settle. He'll let you have sand paper, blacking, brushes, and other cleaning materials on the same terms.

“Here's a rubber poncho.

“Let's see! that's all in the clothing line. Now for your arms and accoutrements!”

I appealed to the sergeant:

“Let me carry a load of my things to the barracks before receiving my arms and other fixings?”

“Can't do it--take too much time; and if you did go over with part of your outfit, somebody'd steal what you left in the barracks before you returned with the rest.”

“Go it, then,” I exclaimed in despair, and the sergeant continued:

“This carbine is just the thing to kill rebels with if you ever get near enough to them. It's a short-range weapon, but cavalrymen are supposed to ride down the enemy at short range.

“The carbine sling and swivel attaches the carbine over your shoulder.

“This cartridge box will be filled before you go on the skirmish line; so will the cap pouch.

“This funny-looking little thing with a string attached is a wiper with which to keep your carbine clean inside.

“The screw-driver will be handy to take your carbine apart, but don't do it when near the enemy. They might scoop you in before you could put your gun together.

“Your revolver is for short-range work. You can kill six rebels with it without reloading, if the rebels will hold still and you are a crack shot. You can keep the pistol in this holster which attaches to your waist-belt, as does also this box for pistol cartridges.

“These smaller straps are to hold your saber scabbard to the waist-belt, and this strap goes over the shoulder to keep your belt from slipping down around your heels.

“This is your saber inside the scabbard. I've no doubt it's inscribed 'Never draw me without cause or sheathe me with dishonor,' but we can't stop to look at it now. If it isn't inscribed, ask your first sergeant about it. The saber knot completes this part of the outfit. The saber is pretty big for you, but we're out of children's sizes. The horse furniture comes next.”

“Will you please let Taylor and Waterman come in here and help me?” I petitioned to the sergeant.

“Everybody for himself is the rule in the army,” said the sergeant. “Tie up your clothing and arms in your bed blanket. You can put your horse furniture in your saddle blanket.”