er took off the soiled
garment, flinging it into a corner, and I helped him to put himself in
proper fettle again. This finished, he ran away, hurriedly, with his
carpet-bag, and I missed the opportunity I wanted for a brief talk with
him.

Chapter 39

My regiment left New York by night in a flare of torch and rocket. The
streets were lined with crowds now hardened to the sound of fife and
drum and the pomp of military preparation. I had a very high and mighty
feeling in me that wore away in the discomfort of travel. For hours
after the train started we sang and told stories, and ate peanuts and
pulled and hauled at each other in a cloud of tobacco smoke. The train
was sidetracked here and there, and dragged along at a slow pace.

Young men with no appreciation, as it seemed to me, of the sad business
we were off upon, went roistering up and down the aisles, drinking out
of bottles and chasing around the train as it halted. These revellers
grew quiet as the night wore on. The boys began to close their eyes
and lie back for rest. Some lay in the aisle, their heads upon their
knapsacks. The air grew chilly and soon I could hear them snoring all
about me and the chatter of frogs in the near marshes. I closed my eyes
and vainly courted sleep. A great sadness had lain hold of me. I had
already given up my life for my country--I was only going away now to
get as dear a price for it as possible in the hood of its enemies. When
and where would it be taken? I wondered. The fear had mostly gone out
of me in days and nights of solemn thinking. The feeling I had, with its
flavour of religion, is what has made the volunteer the mighty soldier
he has ever been, I take it, since Naseby and Marston Moor. The soul is
the great Captain, and with a just quarrel it will warm its sword in the
enemy, however he may be trained to thrust and parry. In my sacrifice
there was but one reservation--I hoped I should not be horribly cut with
a sword or a bayonet. I had written a long letter to Hope, who was yet
at Leipzig. I wondered if she would care what became of me. I got a
sense of comfort thinking I would show her that I was no coward, with
all my littleness. I had not been able to write to Uncle Eb or to my
father or mother in any serious tone of my feeling in this enterprise.
I had treated it as a kind of holiday from which I should return shortly
to visit them.

All about me seemed to be sleeping--some of them were talking in their