XV
WE are still here in Camp Sullivan, our marching orders having been countermanded at the last moment; but are sure to be off before many days. We have been expecting to march today, but probably will not.
A day or two ago there was a dreadful accident in our brigade. The Rhode Island battery were drilling upon the parade ground in front of our camp, when the ammunition in one of the limbers exploded and the three men seated on the box were hurled high in the air, two being killed instantly—literally blown all to pieces. I was on the spot almost instantly, and with the single exception of the Pemberton Mills horror, which I viewed as a newspaper reporter, it was the most sickening sight I ever saw.
We certainly do have gay times here in camp. The days are frightfully hot, but the evenings are cool and nice, and somehow or other the camp scenes then remind me—and I can’t tell just how—of an old-fashioned country fair. I suppose it’s the canvas, the lighted tents like open booths, the men swarming hither and thither, the bustle and frolic and singing—and we have some very fine singers in our company.
P. S.—Monday Morning.—We have received orders to march tomorrow at two o’clock, with three days’ rations and without camp equipage. The orders are imperative and we are sure of going. We shall probably see some of the business we came for before long. I will write at the first opportunity and let you know what happens.