LXXII
MY company went on picket last Saturday. It was a most disagreeable outing. A miserable rain storm came on in the night, and when the boys, after a very tardy relief, dragged themselves back to camp, they were cold, wet, bedraggled and discouraged. The rain held up yesterday forenoon, but the wind kept up in a wild gale. I hardly ever saw such a blow. Some of our tents were blown over. The tent-pins of my tent pulled out and I thought at one time the whole outfit was going sure enough. But we managed to anchor it, and today is one of the most delightful imaginable.
An order was recently issued by the War Department designed to fill up the regular cavalry regiments at the expense of the volunteers. It permits the transfer of ten men from each volunteer company, by re-enlistment for three or five years, or to serve out the unexpired part of their present enlistment. Lots of our boys have been getting sour over some of the conditions here and were more than anxious to try a change. So yesterday ten from this company marched down to the recruiting station at Alexandria and joined the cavalry. When Col. Marston heard of this he was mad as a hornet, and when they shouldered their knapsacks this morning and marched away to their new command, he sent a guard down to arrest and bring them back. But Col. Starr ordered the guard away, telling them they had no business there, and that the men now belonged to the Second U. S. Cavalry. It is really a pretty hard blow to the old company, and makes me feel a little blue and lonesome. The lost men are among the cream of the old company—such men as “Heenan” and Perk. Lane and ’Gene Hazewell and my bunkie Rod. Manning.
We have not a quarter of a regiment to do duty now, and yet we are doing the work of a full regiment. And the people in New Hampshire think we are resting up! Why, I am now, and for some time have been, doing heavy guard duty every other day. There are lots of mighty cross men here, just now, who blame some of the officers for everything that goes wrong, and the dearest wish of many is to get out of the regiment as soon as possible.
I am sure the report that Charlie Smiley is in a hospital near Washington is incorrect. We have heard nothing of it here, and I fear we will never hear him sing those songs of his any more.
I began this letter this morning, and now it is evening. I have written little snatches as I had opportunity through the day. ’Gene Hazewell and one or two more of the “cavalry boys” have just come up visiting. They go over to Washington tomorrow. Col. Marston managed to get some sort of a veto put on any more cavalry enlistment down where our boys went, but some thirty or forty from other companies went off today and found another place where they could enlist, so they beat the old Colonel after all. Everything I can hear the boys talk about now is “Cavalry.” Rod. Manning has just come in to bid me good bye. Good old Rod!—I almost wish I was going with him.
There is any quantity of noise about camp, and the new band of the Eleventh Massachusetts is contributing to the general hilarity by putting in some of its loudest work. It is getting awfully cold now—frost last night—and I can hardly hold my pen in my fingers.