LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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