CXXXVII
HAVE got my old tent in running order again, fixed somewhat as it was before the Pendleton disaster overtook it. It does seem good to be back doing business at the old stand. But still it does not look exactly homelike yet. For a stove I have got one of the little sheet-iron conical “Sibleys.” It was donated by Charlie Shute, the quartermaster, but he had no stovepipe for me. But I made a raise of four lengths in Bailey’s sutler shop, and stole one length down in the company, which was sufficient for my purpose, and the stove works to perfection. But yesterday and today have been so very, very pleasant that there has been but little need of any fire. Warm, summery days, with the sun shining and the robins flying.
Yesterday morning I was awakened, very early, by a violent banging which threatened to burst in my door. I asked, in the polite manner customary in camp, who was there, and the reply that came left no doubt: “Hey, Muggins! Get up and let me in here, won’t you?” Only one of all my old school crowd remembers and still hails me by my schoolboy nickname—“Muggins.” I tumbled out of bed in a hurry and opened the door to our old friend Charlie Wilson, just in on the boat from Portsmouth, Va. [Charles H. Wilson, of Manchester, until discharged for disability a member of the New Hampshire battalion First New England Volunteer Cavalry, and then in the employ of the Quartermaster Department at Portsmouth, Va.] He was going back last night, but he enjoyed himself so well yesterday that he decided to accidentally miss the boat. He goes back tonight—that is, if he does not accidentally get left again.
One day nearer home, and only sixty-seven more are between us. I have a card almanac hung up, and as soon as a day passes I scratch it off, just as I have heard of men doing who were going to be hanged. The fine weather I was bragging about has changed to cold and windy, with every indication of a coming storm. Charlie Wilson started back last night, and I went down to see him off. I am messing now with the cooks, down at the company cook house, and you may be sure we have the best of rations and plenty of them.
The wind is piping up furiously, and my old tent is shaking and creaking like a ship in a gale, but I guess she will weather it. Charlie Wilson sent his regards—come to think of it, I guess it was his love.