There is some pleasure in being drilled by such men as our officers. I wish you could see the lieutenant on parade, in his best clothes, which somehow are more becoming to him than the undress uniform, in which Kirby shows best. Watch Pendleton walking with his springy, tireless step, always with his eye on us. A dandy he is then, but one of the fighting dandies, an athlete in good training, and a man that knows his business.
Our day was so completely taken up by the shooting that at the end it was too late even for Retreat, and we in the middle of our washing up watched the other battalion at parade, stood at attention while the band played the Star-Spangled Banner, and saluted at the end. I have spent much of the evening writing; and now, the first call having blown, the camp is getting ready for bed. In the inner company tent I am left alone, the other letter-writers and diarists having drifted away. In the outer, open tent, where the conferences are held, three men are sitting at a corner of the big table, still discussing their scores, their rifles, the squeeze, the kick, the serious mistake it is to cant the gun. And here is a fact for you. Captain Kirby declares that the rifles do not kick, and in his own case he is probably right. But I got today a very sharp recoil each time I fired, so that by noon my arm was lame to the elbow, and my shoulder sore. I expected much difficulty in the afternoon, and the first shot hurt consumedly; but whether or not I learned to hold the rifle better, or whether the gradual toning up of my muscles is accustoming me to what comes, the rest of the kicks seemed to act as a sort of massage, so that I forgot about them, and tonight I am entirely free of lameness.
Outside, at the head of the company street, the fire is gradually dying down. Wood is always provided for it, a hole is dug, the men feed it as long as they please, and in the morning the police squad, I suppose, smooth the ground. On benches or on the ground the men sit about the fire, sing, discuss, or chat in groups. There is in the store tent an easy chair made of rough lumber and sacking; when the captain can be induced to stay after conference the men bring it out, seat him in it, and make him talk. On his own doings he is silent, but on the work of the camp, the formations, drill, skirmish work, patrolling, outpost duty, and especially just now the ways of his beloved tool, the rifle, he has much to say. Around him are men often much older than he, others who in civil life command several times his pay, fellows who have every luxury at command, as well as chaps bred and indeed wedded to the most peaceable pursuits. But they all are here for a purpose; they never talk patriotism but they all act it; and everything he can tell them that bears on their efficiency as soldiers they will pump from him if they possibly can. It is fine to see how they recognize in him complete mastery of the subject that occupies us all, and how they sit at his feet for instruction.
But he has left us nearly half an hour ago, and the groups that remain are slowly separating, as one by one the men go to their tents. I can tell you just what is happening in ours. The lantern is lighted and hanging on the pole. Clay is probably finishing a letter to his “mother.” Bannister is doubtless already abed, but ready from his cot to add a sleepy jest to the quiet talk that is slowly going on. Reardon is putting the last stamps on the sheaf of post-cards that he daily sends, for he, you must understand, has more correspondents at home than any of the rest of us. Rather big and burly, the quietest of men, with a very active eye but very intensely committed to the minding of his own business, I know him to be the most popular man in his own little town, where as the managing clerk of the grocery he knows every man, woman, and child in the place. He knows the taste of each, what he habitually needs or demands, whether to trust or require cash. He gets through his day without a clash with anyone. And knowing both his customers and the market he looks after the needs of the town, warns of a rise in prices, calls attention to special bargains, advises to lay in a stock of this or that. They miss him now that he’s gone; I know it by the pleasure he takes in the letters and post-cards that come daily, bits from which he cannot help reading out to us—from the Civil War veteran who half believes in Plattsburg, and half doesn’t; the drug-store clerk that has to go off on his vacation alone; the “boss” that has nothing personal to say, but quotes the market changes; the neighbor who doesn’t quite venture to trust to the post the doughnuts she wishes she might send. And nightly Reardon sits on his cot and writes in the dim light careful answers to every message.
Lucy and Corder are putting themselves to bed most systematically, Corder because of his middle-aged habit, Lucy on account of that aristocratic cleanliness in which he has been scrupulously bred. They have their system and their order, the toilet, the costume, the making of the bed, all very careful and precise. Knudsen, still dressed, is lolling on his cot and jollying; this is the time of day when he most comes out of himself, and I know that presently when I approach the tent it will be his ringing tenor that I shall hear. He is poking fun at the others, cursing that last shot on the range, interrupting Reardon and Clay in their writing, philosophizing on his favorite subject, baseball. Yet if you get a little closer to him you find that he has interests that it takes a little coaxing to disclose: religious convictions that he has changed with his growth, curious hard business experiences that make him declare that he is a self-seeker, while you have only to watch him with Lucy to know that he is not. Yet he sedulously knocks and batters at every feminine quality that the boy discloses, and will exaggerate any statement if he thinks you suspect him of tenderness.
I shall presently make a dash, for the tent, snatch my tooth-brush and make for the spigot, and bring back a basin of water for my feet. Then Knudsen will bestir himself and race me for bed, at the same time that Reardon lays by his pen and accepts our warning. We crawl between the blankets, nine over us tonight. I shall put my poncho over me next, and my overcoat on that, and with the tent-wall looped up shall be practically outdoors.
Last of all Pickle will come slipping in from some rendezvous with friends. He sleeps in his clothes, minus shoes and leggings, and he is likely to be curled up before I am.
And then float to us the notes of Taps. “Love, good night. Must thou go...?” It is the signal. The last one of us puts out the lantern, and it is soon “Good night, boys,” and silence. Usually I go to sleep at once; if not I soon hear the feet of two of the sergeants in the street and see the gleam of their lantern. They come from tent to tent, enter ours and throw the light on each cot, and pass on. Often I hear from the neighboring tents a sleepy “Good night, sergeant,” but never yet the question “Who sleeps in that cot?” A high average, then, of obedience to the rules. The men are here for business.
I have lingered almost too long. Good night!
Dick.