Delegates from the strikers now made their appearance, with the evident intention of getting the soldiers drunk before six o’clock. Captain Cook, however, ordered his men to accept no invitations to drink. Not to be baffled, the strikers soon reappeared, carrying cases of bottled beer, which the captain quickly refused to allow his men to receive. Still persistent, a striker stepped into the shade of our shed carrying two quart bottles of whiskey, which he proceeded to toss amongst the men. The captain was still on the alert, however, and ordered the bottles returned, telling the overgenerous striker that he would not allow his men to receive liquor.
Lieutenant Filmer and Sergeant Kelly were then sent into town, with orders to purchase two cases of soda water, which, on its arrival, was quickly disposed of. Quartermaster Sergeant Clifford, ever watchful, procured at a coffee house close by a supply of buns, which he quickly manufactured into sandwiches, and distributed amongst his famished comrades.
The scene had by this time become exceedingly picturesque. The tired, wearied men had quieted down, some stretched on the ground sleeping heavily, their heads pillowed on rolled blankets or on knapsacks; others resting in the same way, though chatting quietly, and still others were busily writing letters, using the head of a drum or the back of a knapsack placed on the knees as they sat on the ground as a desk.
It has been commonly reported that the soldiers became boisterously drunk, and fraternized freely with the very men they had come there to fight. If this be so, it was confined almost entirely to the other commands, no man of the First, to our knowledge, and most decidedly none of “B,” being even slightly intoxicated. The afternoon passed slowly by, no apparent preparations being made to resume hostilities at the expiration of the truce. Six o’clock came, but with it no change of position. Now we began to wonder whether or not our “ample breakfast” of the morning was intended to serve as supper, too. If that were so, we decided that man’s nature had changed since General Allen was young, for we certainly began to feel the pangs of hunger.
Our fears were allayed, however, when, at 6:30, the order “Fall in for supper” was given. Taking our arms with us, we were marched, under command of Lieutenant Filmer, to the State House Hotel, where our display of gastronomic powers completely dismayed the scurrying waiters.
Returning from supper our pace was an evidence of the good use we had made of this chance to appease our appetites.
Returned to our shed near the depot, it was evident the position remained unchanged. The different companies were either going to or returning from supper at the various hotels.
The evening passed quietly; many of the men sleeping on the ground where they had thrown their knapsacks.
At about 9:30 P. M. Captain Cook formed the company, and told us that the First would be removed to the Horticultural Hall, on the main floor of which we would be allowed to bivouac that night. The companies were already moving, and “B,” getting possession of an electric car, was the last company to leave. The car, as of course, proved to be the wrong one, and carried us less than half the desired distance. The rest of the way was covered on foot, the company arriving at the hall some little time after the other companies had settled down for the night. What a scene we would have presented to the eyes of a stranger! Every available foot of floor was covered with sleeping forms. The band stand and stage were utilized; even the steps, a very precarious bed indeed, were in demand; and every corner that appeared to offer security from draughts had its quota of men.
Thus ended that great and glorious Fourth of July, in the year of our Lord, 1894. Glorious, indeed, in the annals of this great Empire State of the West.